The Golden Master
"Look at it," the man said. "It is not gold." Elara did not look up. Her fingers, stained with the black dust of the quarry, worked the chisel with a rhythm that had long since ceased to be conscious. The stone was stubborn. It resisted the bit. It held its secrets tight against the cold morning air. She was forty-three years old, a woman who had spent the better part of two decades breaking...
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