The Golden Scar
The snow in the Northern Wastes did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey dust that settled into the cracks of Elias Thorne’s coat and the hollows of his face, freezing the sweat of his exertion into a rime that crusted his eyelashes and made every blink a sharp, stinging effort. He was forty years old, though the state’s records listed him as thirty-eight, a clerical error...
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