The Golden Quest
The dream is always the same, a viscous and golden heat that seeps into the creases of your palm until the metal loses its shape, becoming a liquid mirror of your own sweating skin. You wake in the dark of your study in Harrowgate, the November air biting at the windowpane, and reach instinctively for the pocket where the locket rests. It is warm. It has always been warm, a subtle fever that...
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