The Golden Farce
The chandelier in the Great Hall swung gently with the weight of the crystal, casting fractured light across the faces of the faculty, a shimmering net that seemed to trap Elias Thorne in its gold. He stood at the head of the long oak table, the silver bowl of claret trembling slightly in his hand, his knuckles white against the polished metal. He was forty years old, a historian of modest...
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