The Golden Echoes
The dream always ended with the sound of glass giving way, a high, thin shriek that cut through the silence of the night before Elias Thorne even opened his eyes. He lay in the narrow bed of the servants’ quarters, the mattress springs groaning under his forty-year-old frame, and felt the phantom weight of shards in his palms, a tactile memory of destruction that left his hands trembling long...
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