The Golden Maze
The trowel was heavy, a slab of iron worn smooth by thirty years of Elias Thorne’s grip. It sat in his palm like a dead bird, cold and still, as he pressed the last course of stone into the Great Gate’s final arch. His knuckles were swollen, the skin pulled tight over bone that ached with a dull, persistent heat. This was the weight of Oakhaven, he knew, the physical burden of holding the...
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