The Golden Master
The air in the reading room of the Royal Historical Society was thick with the scent of decaying vellum and the quiet, persistent dust of centuries, a atmosphere that Elias Thorne had breathed for twenty years until it began to taste of iron. He sat hunched over the desk, his hands trembling not from age, but from a visceral, primal hunger that had seized him the moment he had opened the folio...
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