The Golden Song
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the workshop courtyard into a slick, reflective mirror. Elias Thorne stood by the door, his hand resting on the cold iron latch, watching the water pool around the heels of his boots. He was forty-five, though the gray in his beard and the tremor in his left hand suggested a man who had lived several...
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