The Golden Scar
The date is the fourteenth of November, though the year is a number I have ceased to trust, a meaningless digit stamped upon the parchment by a clerk whose face I have forgotten and will forget again. I am Silas Vane, thirty-four years old by the Ministry’s reckoning, an enforcer of the Continuity, and I write this to record the singular, burning desire that has consumed the last three years of...
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