The Golden Scar
The mark is on your left shoulder. You have always known this. It is a golden scar, a streak of light that burns without heat. It pulses in time with your heartbeat. You are in the Hall of Records. The air is stale, thick with the dust of ten thousand lives. You are the Archivist. Your job is simple. You keep the order. You keep the silence. You do not ask questions. That is the rule. The rule...
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