The Golden Scar
The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and old sweat. I sat at the head of the long oak table, my fingers stained with the residue of the day’s work, watching the High Warden’s adjutant, Elias Thorne, pour wine into cups that gleamed like polished brass. It was the year 84, and I was forty-two, a goldsmith in the walled town of Ostra, a place where the stone walls were built to keep out the...
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