The Golden Maze
The nib of the pen hovered, trembling slightly, over the parchment. It was a heavy instrument, brass-nibbed and scarred by decades of use, and Elias Thorne held it with a grip that had whitened his knuckles. In the next room, behind the thin plaster wall, his father’s breathing was a wet, rhythmic rasp, a sound that filled the silence of the map room like water filling a lung. Elias was fifty...
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