The Golden Visit
The dust in the Duke’s archive did not settle; it hung in the candlelight like suspended time, a fine, gray powder that coated the tongue and the lungs of anyone who dared to breathe deeply in the vaulted silence. Elias Thorne, thirty years old and hunched over a desk of black oak, held a magnifying glass to a sheet of parchment covered in a cipher so dense it looked like the scribbling of a...
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