The Golden Scar
The rain on the black marble of the High Court did not wash the streets clean; it only made the filth slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflected the jagged, iron-gated spires of the Ministry. You stood at the center of the plaza, your hands bound behind your back by chains of polished silver that hummed with a low, electric frequency. The metal bit into your wrists, a cold,...
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