The Golden Downtown
The iron ring on your finger is warm, not from the fire you are stoking, but from the blood that refuses to stop flowing from the cut across your palm. You are standing in the center of the Guildhall, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and old sweat, and the voices of the Magisters are a low, grinding hum that vibrates in your teeth. They are shouting. You are shouting. The ring, a band...
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