The Golden Crossing
The vial in my pocket hummed against my thigh, a low, metallic thrum that vibrated through the bone of my leg and settled in the marrow of my spine. I stood before the Minister’s desk, the air in the room thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the damp, rotting smell of old paper. He did not look up from the ledger he was balancing, his fountain pen scratching a rhythmic, indifferent line...
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