The Golden Scar
The iron taste of blood mixes with the dust of the old world, coating your tongue as you press your back against the cold stone of the Senate’s undercroft. Your lungs burn, a ragged, animal thing, trying to pull air from the stagnant, moldy dark. You are not a soldier anymore. You are a prisoner of a system that has forgotten how to breathe. Above you, the heavy doors of the Hall of Records...
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