The Golden Visit
The iron bar was cold against my palm as I hauled it down, the sound of metal grinding against rusted hinges echoing in the small, damp room. I was thirty-two years old, a city constable, and I had just killed a man in the street while trying to do my duty. The man was Julian Vane, the Mayor’s son. He was not a rioter. He was a bystander who had stepped into the path of my baton because he was...
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