The Golden Master
You carry the bird in your left hand, its wings folded tight against its ribs like a secret kept too long. The feathers are the color of dried blood and rust, dull and heavy, stripped of any golden sheen by the rain that has fallen for three days straight. Your fingers ache from the cold, but you do not let go. You have walked for hours through the mud of the valley, past the crooked pines and...
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