The Golden Echoes
The warrant was a yellowed rectangle of paper, stiff with age and damp. Miller held it out to you, his knuckles white against the cardboard backing. You took it. The ink was smudged where his thumb had rested, a dark blur over the name Elias Thorne. You were bleeding. A thin line of red ran from your hairline, mixing with the mud on your face. The abandoned mill smelled of wet rot and old iron....
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