The Golden Suspect
The first strike lands on your shoulder, a dull thud that echoes in the cramped stone corridor. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and the constable of Blackwood, though the title feels like a rusted chain around your neck. Your hands are trembling, not from the cold, but from the black veins pulsing beneath your skin. The rot is spreading. It began three days ago, a single bruise on your thumb...
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