The Golden Scar
The iron gate of the manor house, a thing of blackened iron and ancient oak, groaned under the weight of the morning fog as Elias Thorne, a man whose face had been carved by the wind and the scars of the Great War, pushed it open with a strength that seemed to come from a place deep within his chest, a place where the memory of the trenches had settled like silt in a riverbed, heavy and...
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