The Golden Crossing
The tower stood at the edge of the city like a scar that had healed over into stone, its silhouette cutting a sharp, vertical wound against the bruised twilight. It was a place of silence, a concrete monolith where the air smelled of ozone and old paper, and where the light did not fall so much as it was rationed, measured out in cold, blue slivers through the high, barred windows. Elias Thorne...
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