The Golden Scar
The ink was not merely black; it was the color of a bruise that had forgotten how to fade, settling into the grain of the parchment like a stain that refused to lift from the soul of the house. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair that had belonged to his father, and before his father, and before that, for generations of Thorne men who had worn this very spot in the wood into a hollow, a...
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