The Golden Maze
The wind did not blow through the Golden Maze; it screamed, a high, thin sound like a nail dragged across a chalkboard, vibrating in the brass walls that rose thirty feet into the grey sky. You stood at the entrance, your cartographer’s satchel heavy against your hip, the smell of ozone and rotting leaves thick in your throat, while the village of Oakhaven huddled below in the valley, silent...
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