The Golden Crossing
The sap is warm, isn't it? The one-eyed man asked, his voice rough like gravel in a tin cup. Elias did not look up from the vial in his hands. He watched the golden liquid pulse against the glass, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched the beat of his own trapped heart. It is not warm, Elias said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers. It is alive. The forest is hungry for it, and if...
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