The Golden Scar
The dream is always the same, a conflagration of gold and crimson that starts in the marrow of your ribs and spreads outward until you are nothing but smoke and feathers. You wake in the narrow bunk of your quarters in Oakhaven, the air thick with the damp rot of the border fog, your chest heaving as if you have just run a mile in the snow. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border...
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