The Golden Circuit
14 March The pen slips in my fingers, leaving a streak of yellow dust on the paper that smells of sulfur and old copper. I am writing this from the outpost at Kettle Creek, where the wind bites through the wool of my coat and the ground feels soft, like wet sand. I want to clear my name regarding the incident at the river crossing, but the words feel heavy, as if they are made of lead. The...
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