The Golden Circuit
The train shudders, a metallic groan that travels up through the soles of your shoes and settles in your teeth. You are not supposed to be here. You are an exile, a ghost in a wool coat that smells of damp wool and old tobacco, sitting in the second-class carriage of a mail train that carries the secrets of the Empire to the periphery. The air is thin, recycled, and tastes of copper. You look...
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