The Golden Scar
The departure was not marked by a train whistle or the clatter of wheels, but by the slow, deliberate withdrawal of warmth from the air, as if the city of Oakhaven itself were exhaling a final, cold breath. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the platform, his hand resting on the iron railing, watching the figures of the Reclamation Office descend upon the lower districts. He was an exile of the...
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