The Golden Scar
The fever dream began not with light, but with the wet, heavy sound of something being torn from the bone, a visceral ripping that echoed in the hollow of Eamon’s skull long before the bell tower of Kells struck the hour of dawn, waking him to the smell of stale peat and the metallic tang of blood that coated his own tongue. He lay rigid in the narrow cot, his body a map of bruises and old...
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