The Golden Maze
You wake to the sound of your own breathing, a ragged, wet thing that fills the small, damp cellar where you have been keeping watch for three days. The air tastes of wet stone and stale iron, the metallic tang of blood that is not yours, or perhaps it is, you can no longer tell the difference between the rust of the old pipes and the copper in your mouth. You are a soldier in a war that has no...
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