The Golden Master
The first thing Elias Thorne counted was the hours, not with a clock, but with the heavy, rhythmic thud of his own pulse against the temple, a steady drumbeat that marked the passage of time in the dark before the sun had the decency to rise. He had slept, or what passed for sleep in a mind besieged by the recurring vision of a golden sparrow, its feathers not of gold leaf but of molten metal,...
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