The Golden Crossing
"You're late, Thorne. The shift started an hour ago." Sergeant Elias Thorne did not answer. He stood at the railing of the Weeping Bridge, his breath pluming in the cold fog that rolled off the River Oakhaven. The air was damp, seeping into the wool of his uniform until it felt like a second, heavier skin. He was thirty-two years old, but his hands looked fifty, cracked and stained with the...
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