The Golden Scar
The fire started in the roots of the world, or so it seemed, a churning, black sludge that erupted from the drainage culverts beneath the town of Ashworth, coating the cobblestones in a viscous, oily sheen that smelled of rotting copper and burnt hair, and as I stood there on the precipice of my own ruin, watching the muck spread across the bridge toward the town square, I knew with a cold,...
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