The Golden Master
You are not Elias. The voice did not come from the door, nor from the shadows of the high-ceilinged library where the dust motes hung suspended in a light that seemed to have no source, but from the air itself, a vibration that started in the molars and worked its way down into the hollows of the chest, a pressure so distinct it felt like a physical hand pressing against the sternum. I stood...
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