The Golden Scar
The gold scarab pulsed against Elias Thorne’s palm, a warm, rhythmic beat that mirrored the failing thump of his own heart. He sat in the dim archive room, the smell of mildew and old paper thick in his throat, and listened to the whisper. It was Julian’s voice, thin and high, calling his name from the dark. Elias had held the artifact for three years, since the boy’s burial, believing it a...
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