The Golden Circuit
The rain slicked the cobblestones of the old city, turning the world into a blur of gray and wet stone. I stood by the window of my cramped cell. The air tasted of damp wool and old iron. Outside, the guards moved with the heavy, slow gait of men who had forgotten how to dream. They were the law. I was the crime. My hands trembled. Not from fear. From hunger. I closed my eyes. I could smell it...
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