The Golden Suspect
The pyre burned with a dry, white heat that stripped the moisture from the air and cracked the earth beneath Elias Thorne’s boots. He stood at the edge of the square, his hand buried deep in the pocket of his black robes, fingers wrapped tightly around the golden seal of the Inquisition. The metal was warm. Not hot, yet, but a persistent, living warmth, like a stone left in the sun. He counted...
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