The Golden Crossing
The river did not freeze. It boiled. This was the first wrong thing. The second was that it tasted of copper. The third was that the water rose to swallow the bridge before the bells could ring the hour. Thomas Ashworth stood on the parapet. His boots were wet. The stone was slick. He held the iron railing with one hand. The other gripped the hilt of his sword. The blade was bare steel. It...
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