The Wistful Mountain
The leather of the Codex of Silence was cold, colder than the stone floor of the Ministry’s basement archive, and Elias Thorne held it with a grip that whitened his knuckles, feeling the faint, dry vibration of the pages shifting as if breathing. He was forty-two, a senior archivist who had spent two decades cataloging the mundane debris of history, and he wanted the promotion to Minister of...
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