The Golden Crossing
The hand was cold, a block of wax and blue flesh that did not belong to the world of the living, yet it twitched against my palm with the persistent, rhythmic spasm of a trapped animal. I held it tightly, the knuckles white and cracked from the frost, while the ice beneath my boots groaned and shifted, a low, tectonic complaint that vibrated up through my shins and settled in my teeth. My name...
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