The Golden Scar
The sky above the Ironspire did not burn with the orange of a common sunset, nor did it bleed the crimson of a violent dusk, but rather it curdled into a thick, bruised purple that pressed down upon the shoulders of the watchmen like a physical weight, a heavy wool blanket soaked in vinegar and old blood. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his boots caked in the grey dust...
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