The Golden Scar
The air in the Ministry of Memory did not smell of dust, but of ozone and antiseptic, a sterile chill that settled in the lungs and refused to leave. Elias Thorne stood before the cataloging desk, his fingers hovering over the spine of the latest acquisition, a sheaf of parchment bound in leather so dark it seemed to drink the fluorescent light. He was thirty-four years old, a man who had spent...
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