The Golden Scar
The rain in the city of Aethelgard did not fall; it drifted, a fine, persistent mist that settled into the pores of the skin and the rust of the iron bridges, carrying with it the faint, metallic taste of the old world, a taste that Elias Thorne had grown accustomed to over the last decade of his service in the Bureau of Corrective Memory. He stood at the window of his small, dimly lit office...
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