The Golden Scar
The wren was dead in my hand, its small black eyes staring at me with a terrible, unblinking accusation, its feathers ruffled by the sudden gust that had swept through the high, vaulted hall of the Citadel, and I stood there, frozen in the center of the polished stone floor, holding the broken bird like a shivering secret, while the heavy oak doors behind me groaned shut and the air grew thick...
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