The Golden Farce
The air in the High Court’s antechamber tasted of copper and old dust, a metallic tang that Elias Thorne had learned to associate with the slow decay of truth. He stood before the desk of the High Chancellor, a man whose smile seemed to contain too many teeth, each one catching the dim light of the oil lamps that lined the vaulted ceiling. Elias was thirty-two, though the years of exile in the...
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