The Golden Scar
The chisel in Thomas Ashworth’s hand was cracked, the steel splitting along a hairline fracture that had been there for three years. He held it up to the grey light of the border watchtower, turning it slowly, feeling the cold bite of the metal against his palm. It was a cheap tool, issued from the central depot in the capital, and it cost less than a day’s wage for a common laborer, yet it was...
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