The Golden Mirror
The iron is cold in your hand. It bites into the meat of your palm, a familiar, dull ache that has become the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. You are running through the mud of the old mill district, the rain hammering down in sheets of gray slate. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, a white mist that vanishes instantly in the chill air. You are not chasing a man. You are chasing...
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