The Golden Scar
The fog in the borderlands does not roll in; it sits, a heavy, copper-tasting weight that presses against the skin like a damp wool blanket, and I walked through it with the taste of old blood on my tongue, the brand on my left forearm throbbing a dull, rhythmic heat that matched the beating of my heart. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a Border Warden of the Iron Kingdom, and I have...
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