The Golden Scar
The air in the Guildhall of Aethelgard tasted of stale wax and old blood. It was a thick, suffocating humidity that clung to the skin like a second, heavier layer of wool, making every breath a deliberate, labored act. In the center of the room, beneath the unblinking gaze of the High Warden’s portrait, stood Elias Thorne. He did not look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the polished surface of...
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