The Golden Crossing
The rain hits the stone like a handful of gravel. You look down. Your hands are red. Not wet with rain, but wet with blood. The river below the keep does not reflect the sky. It reflects your sin. You are Elias, thirty-two, a warden of the Ostrava gate. You have served for ten years. You know the weight of the iron key. You know the smell of the damp stone. But you do not know how you killed...
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