The Distant Whispers
It was a matter of the ledger, Elias said, tapping the ink-stained page with a finger that trembled not from age, but from the sheer weight of the silence in the room. The smell of the Mint was a permanent fixture, a thick, metallic tang of oxidized silver and old dust that clung to the back of the throat like a bad coin. It sat in the basement archives, a place where light was rationed by the...
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