The Faded Shield
The first thing one notices in the Imperial Mint’s sub-basement archive is the smell, a dry, metallic tang like old blood mixed with the dust of ten thousand ledgers, a scent that coats the back of the throat and settles in the lungs before the eyes adjust to the dim, amber light of the gas lamps. Elias Thorne, Assessor of the Third Class, stood before the towering oak shelves, his fingers...
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