The Golden Suspect
The chisel bit into the limestone with a dull, granular crunch, sending a spray of pale dust across the desk where Elias Thorne sat, his hands slick with sweat and grit. He was forty-two years old, an archivist of middling rank, and his tenure depended entirely on the restoration of the boundary stones in the Old Quarter, a project that had stalled for three months due to what the city council...
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