The Golden Maze
The golden mist did not smell of rot, as one might expect from a place where flesh was being digested, but of old paper and heated copper, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a persistent lie. He stood knee-deep in the luminescence, his boots sinking into the soft, yielding ground of the Labyrinth, while the fog curled around his left hand, eating away at the knuckles...
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