The Golden Downtown
The air inside the Chantry of St. Jude did not smell of incense or damp stone, but of the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and the cloying, sweet rot of over-ripened figs, a scent that had permeated the very marrow of Elara Vane’s hands since she had first taken up the chisel of the mason’s guild, a tool that felt less like iron and more like a living nerve attached to the end of her wrist. She...
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