The Golden Scar
The rain in New Ashworth did not fall; it was delivered, a grey, industrial slurry that slicked the cobblestones until the town looked like a wet, breathing lung. Elias Vane stood at the edge of the precipice, his collar high, the heavy wool of his coat smelling of damp ash and the metallic tang of the steam vents below. In his left hand, he clutched a small, velvet-lined box. Inside lay the...
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