The Golden Scar
"You have the mark." The voice is low. It comes from the shadows behind the heavy oak desk. You sit on the edge of the chair. Your knees knock together. The wood is cold. It bites through your thin wool trousers. You do not look up. You look at your hands. They are rough. They are stained with ink and oil. "Show me," the voice says. You roll up your sleeve. The fabric bunches. It smells of...
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