The Golden Scar
The notice lay on the workbench, the paper yellowed and brittle at the edges. It was a summons from the High Chancellor’s office, demanding the completion of the Golden Scar seal by Friday. I picked it up, the ink cold against my thumb, and looked at the gold leaf waiting in its tray. It was not gold. It was skin, stretched thin and preserved in resin, shimmering with a wet, organic sheen that...
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