The Golden Crossing
The soup is warm. You taste it. It tastes like copper and burnt sugar. You are sitting at the long table in the great hall. The chandeliers are dim. They are old glass. They buzz. They are heavy. You are a soldier. You are a guard. You are the man who holds the door. You are the man who keeps the peace. But the peace is broken. The peace is a lie. You look at your hands. They are red. The red...
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