The Golden Myth
The dream began not with sound, but with the smell of wet wool and ozone, a scent so pungent it felt like a physical weight pressing against the inside of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s skull, dragging him back from the grey, sterile quiet of the hospital ward into a world that smelled of iron and rot. He stood in a vast, circular plaza paved with black stone that shimmered with a faint, oily...
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