The Golden Scar
The transfer order was a single sheet of gray stock, thin as onion skin, sitting on Elias Vane’s desk. He held it with both hands, the paper cool and dry against his palms, while the hum of the ventilation system in the Ministry of Allocation drilled a steady, low note into his teeth. The document was simple. It listed his father, Arthur Vane, a man of seventy-two who had spent four decades...
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