The Golden Farce
The vial weighed exactly three ounces in Elias Thorne’s palm, a weight he had calibrated against the grain of the marble floor tiles in the antechamber, counting the steps to the Chancellor’s door with the same obsessive precision he used to measure his pulse. He was forty-two, a man whose hands had once stitched the King’s wounds with steady, clinical detachment, but now they trembled as he...
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