The Golden Suspect
The rain that fell upon the valley of St. Jude’s did not wash the earth clean; it merely slicked the stones with a grey, viscous sheen that mirrored the sky’s indifference. You had walked for three days, your boots caked in the mud of the borderlands, your body a vessel of exhaustion that seemed to weigh more than the iron chain around your ankle. The chain was not a punishment in the...
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