The Golden Maze
The Gate of Whispers did not open; it exhaled. A membrane of shimmering, industrial light stretched across the threshold, distorting the rain into vertical streaks of mercury. Elias Thorne stood before it, his boots planted in the mud of the Iron Guard’s perimeter, feeling the weight of his own history press against his sternum. It was not a physical weight, not at first, but a gravitational...
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