The Golden Crossing
The stone bridge was breaking. Not crumbling. Breaking. It snapped under the weight of the procession. Elias watched. He stood on the northern bank. His boots were soaked. The mist was thick. It smelled of rot and iron. The crowd was screaming. No. Not screaming. Chanting. A low, rhythmic thrum. It vibrated in his teeth. He looked at the water. It was black. It was still. The bridge did not...
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