The Golden Visit
The gold dust settled on the tunic, heavy and cold, coating the wool fibers in a fine, yellow silt that smelled of burnt sugar and old paper. Elias Thorne woke with the grit in his teeth, spitting the residue onto the cold floorboards of his garrison room. It was the same dream, the same suffocating weight, the same golden shroud that seemed to choke the breath from his lungs. He was forty-two...
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