The Distant Whispers
The scale held forty pounds of silver, a precise and heavy truth in the cold cellar air. Elias Thorne counted the coins again, his fingers slick with sweat, each piece a small, cold disc that did not add up to the sum required. He needed three thousand pounds by Friday, or the bank would take the deed. The chalice sat in the velvet-lined box, its surface dented from a fall decades ago, a flaw...
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