The Golden Maze
The rain fell like broken glass. It struck the cobblestones of the old city. The stones were slick. Black. Wet. Silas Vane walked. His boots made no sound. The mud swallowed them. He was a man of iron. Or so they said. A wall. A shield. The city needed a wall. He carried a map. Not paper. Not cloth. A memory. The golden maze. It lived in his mind. A labyrinth of light. Of truth. He had chased...
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