The Golden Scar
The chisel bit into the limestone with a sharp, gritty crunch that vibrated up Elias Thorne’s forearm, a sensation that was less like work and more like a bone breaking under pressure. He was thirty-two years old, and his hands, which had once been steady enough to carve the face of Christ with delicate precision, now trembled with a fever that had no name, only a color: a faint, pulsing gold...
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