The Golden Maze
The iron plate sat on the workbench, cold and unyielding, its surface etched with the crest of the Fourth Regiment, a golden maze that spiraled inward toward a center that had no exit, only a trap, and Thomas Bradshaw stared at it until the lines blurred into the grey haze of the workshop, his fingers trembling not from the chill of the November morning but from the sudden, violent urge to...
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