The Golden Scar
The obsidian shard sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy, humming with a low frequency that vibrated through the bones of his hand and up into the marrow of his wrist. He was forty-two years old, a man whose lungs had long since surrendered to the dust of the deep mines, now reduced to the sterile, paper-shuffling existence of a low-level clerk in the smog-choked industrial city of...
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