The Golden Scar
Garrow. The name hung in the air of the upper gallery, heavy and rusted, spoken by the hollow wind that whistled through the broken panes of the workshop’s eastern face. Reginald Garrow did not wake so much as he surfaced, his consciousness rising from the deep, viscous dark of a dream where his own chest was a cracked porcelain plate, a golden fissure splitting the white ceramic from sternum...
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