The Golden Crossing
The sword was cold. Not the cold of steel, but the cold of memory. Captain Elias Thorne held it across his knees. The blade was short. Ugly, even. It had belonged to his father, and his father’s father. It was a relic of a war no one spoke of anymore. A war that had ended before the bridges were built. Before the trains ran on the iron lines that now cut the valley like scars. Elias did not...
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