The Golden Scar
The iron bars of the cell were slick with condensation, and the air tasted of rust and stale fear, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I pressed my forehead against the cold stone wall, feeling the damp seep into the wool of my uniform, a grim reminder that we are all just meat waiting to be judged by men who have forgotten what it means to bleed. I was a guard, a keeper of the...
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