The Golden Echoes
The blood was not red. In the flickering candlelight of the High Court, it looked the color of rusted nails, thick and cold as wet clay. I wiped it from my cheek with the back of my hand, the stinging sensation a small, sharp anchor in the chaos. The crowd in the gallery was a low hum, a wall of silence that pressed against my eardrums. In the center of the stone floor, bound by chains that...
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