The Golden Maze
The golden fog does not smell like rot, as you might expect from a place that eats the living. It smells of burnt sugar and old paper, a cloying sweetness that coats the back of your throat and makes your teeth ache. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you have spent the last three days standing at the perimeter of the Golden Maze, the border patrol commander who was supposed to seal it shut....
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