The Golden Suspect
The air in the Imperial Archives did not smell of dust, as Elias Thorne had once believed, but of old varnish and the faint, metallic tang of fear. He stood before the massive oak desk of High Chancellor Vane, his hands resting flat on the polished surface, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor himself against a tide that had already swept him under. Vane sat behind the desk, a figure carved...
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