The Golden Master
Thorne. The name hung in the air of the archive, dry and sharp, spoken by Dean Halloway with the casual weight of a hammer striking a nail. I stood before the oak desk, my fingers still stained with the iron-gall ink of the fourteenth century, the parchment of the founding charter trembling in my grip. It was a minor discrepancy, a single date shifted by a year, a clerical error that would...
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