The Golden Master
The migraine did not ache so much as it hammered, a rhythmic, metallic pounding that synced with the tick of the shop clock. Elias Thorne pressed his forehead against the cold iron of the composing stick, his breath ragged in the stale air of the print shop. He was thirty-four, and his hands, usually steady enough to set type for the most delicate poetry, now trembled like leaves in a gale. In...
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