The Golden Scar
The city of Aethelgard did not sleep. It burned. Not with fire, but with a low, thrumming heat that rose from the cobblestones and seeped into the bones of every man and woman who walked its narrow, soot-stained streets. The sky above was a bruise, purple and swollen, hiding the stars that had once guided the pilgrims of old. Now, the stars were just a rumor, a whisper passed from elder to...
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