The Golden Scar
The glyph on Elias Thorne’s forearm did not hurt, which was the first wrong thing about it, for pain was the language of the body’s betrayal and this mark spoke only in a low, golden hum that vibrated against the bone. It was the twelfth year of the Regime, a time when silence was currency and speech was a debt collected in blood, and Elias, a scribe of modest rank in the Bureau of Records, had...
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