The Golden Maze
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall; it hung, a grey curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias, twelve years old and lean as a whippet, stood at the mouth of the labyrinth, his knuckles white against the slick granite. He was not there to play. He was there because the war had come to the edges of the town, a slow bleed of shelling and conscription that turned the air into something...
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