The Golden Circuit
The hand is broken. You know this before you look. The pain is a white, hot wire pulled taut across your knuckles. You are in the Hall of Mirrors. The glass is old, silvered with a dull gray tarnish that distorts the light. It is the age of the Court. You wear the livery of the Investigator, though you have no title. You have only questions. And now, a broken hand. Who did this? You look at the...
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