The Wistful Voyage
The chisel bit into the sterling silver, a sound like a bone snapping under a heavy boot. Elias Thorne held his breath, the air in the Royal Mint’s engraving room thick with the metallic tang of filings and the stale dust of decades. His left hand, steady as a stone, anchored the plate; his right hand, the one that had carved the faces of kings for thirty years, trembled with a violent,...
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