The Golden Scar
The air in the great hall of the Whitmore estate hung thick with the scent of dried lavender and the metallic tang of ozone, a sensory dissonance that Elara had learned to associate with the impending weight of history, for it was in this very room, beneath the vaulted ceilings painted with the fading constellations of a forgotten era, that the old man sat hunched over his workbench, his hands...
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