The Golden Quest
The bone is in your mouth. It is white and dry. It tastes of iron and old dust. You are bleeding. The blood is hot against your teeth, a copper flood that mixes with the spittle. You spit. The red mist hangs in the air of the library, thick and sweet. Silence. Mr. Harrow stands at the head of the table. He does not look at the blood. He looks at the papers. His hands are folded on the mahogany...
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