The Golden Crossing
The river does not ask permission to rise, and neither do you, though the mud of the valley floor clings to your boots with a tenacity that feels less like earth and more like a living thing, a wet and hungry mouth trying to swallow your stride as you walk alone in the dark, where the only light is the sickly, pulsing glow of the lantern held by the figure waiting at the edge of the treeline, a...
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