The Golden Master
The landlord’s man stood at the top of the stairs, his boots creaking on the worn wood, and I looked up from the desk where the parchment lay wet with ink and something else, something warm and sticky that smelled of iron and old blood. “You have until the bell tolls midnight, boy,” he said, his voice flat and bored, as if discussing the price of turnips rather than the eviction of my mother...
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