The Golden Visit
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Records smelled of roasted pheasant and old stone, a scent that Elias Thorne had associated with dignity for twenty-two years, yet tonight the air was thick with a tension that made his skin prickle as he stood by the window, watching the autumn leaves drift past the glass in a silent, golden cascade. He was forty-two, a senior archivist whose career had been...
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