The Golden Myth
The sky split open. It was not a crack, but a tear, a raw wound of violet light that bled across the firmament above the Iron Gate. The air turned to ash. The wind stopped, holding its breath in the throats of the dead. Thomas Bradshaw stood on the rampart, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The steel was cold. The stone beneath his boots was warm. He did not look up. He looked at the...
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