The Golden Song
The notice lay on the table, the paper thin and brittle as a dried leaf, the ink faded to a grey that matched the dust on the windowsill. Elias Thorne stared at the block of text, the bureaucratic font stripping away the humanity of the words until they were just commands, just orders from the Council of Calvert. *By virtue of the vote held on the 14th of October, the office of Sheriff is...
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