The Golden Farce
The signet ring sat in the palm of Elias Thorne’s hand, heavy as a small stone, its gold surface catching the dim light of the workshop in a way that felt less like brilliance and more like an accusation. He turned it over, feeling the cool weight of the metal against his skin, a forty-year-old master goldsmith who had spent his life polishing the edges of his own worth until they were sharp...
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