The Golden Scar
The ink did not dry so much as it calcified upon the parchment, a brittle, dark crust that spoke of a permanence which the men in the high tower seemed to find both reassuring and terrifying, for it was a permanence that could not be scrubbed away by the damp brooms of the city’s memory, nor washed out by the endless, weeping rain that fell upon the slate roofs of the lower wards. Captain Elias...
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