The Golden Maze
The brass buttons on Elias Thorne’s tunic caught the grey light of Ironbridge, gleaming like wet coins. He stood in the soot-stained square, his spine rigid, waiting for the crowd to thin so he could seize the man they called the Rat. The air tasted of coal dust and wet wool, a thick, choking blanket that clung to the skin. Thorne was thirty-four, with a face worn smooth by discipline and a jaw...
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