The Golden Quest
Thorne. The name was called out by the night watchman, a gruff bark that cut through the humid stillness of the basement archive. Elias Thorne did not look up from his ledger. He was forty-two, a customs inspector of twelve years, and he was tired in a way that sleep no longer seemed able to reach. The air in the room was thick, smelling of damp wool and the metallic tang of old brass. On his...
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