The Golden Scar
You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. It is the first sign. The air in the dormitory is thick, stale, smelling of damp wool and the metallic tang of the machines in the lower halls. You are Margaret. You remember this. You remember the journey, the cold boat, the promise of a place where the mind is not a cage. But here, in the Institute of the Quiet Mind, the mind is a tool. And...
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