The Golden Master
The iron beak of the blackbird was broken, a jagged shard of rusted metal that caught the pale moonlight like a tear frozen in stone. Elias Vane held the bird in his left hand, his knuckles white against the soot-stained feathers, while his right hand gripped the hilt of a short, curved blade that hummed with a low, dissonant frequency. Around him, the forest was not a forest of oak and pine,...
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