The Golden Scar
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the dim light of the drafting room, when Elias Thorne realized the tower he was designing did not look like a structure but like a cage. He was forty years old, an architect of the Second District, and his hands trembled not from age but from the specific, bone-deep chill that settled in Oakhaven whenever the Rot began to...
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