The Golden Scar
The blade was cold, but Silas Vane’s hands were not. They trembled, a fine, persistent vibration that he had spent twenty years trying to master, now failing him in the sterile white light of the Pale Court. Before him sat the condemned, a man whose face was a mask of resignation, his skin stretched tight over the bones of a life already spent. Silas held the scalpel, the edge gleaming with a...
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