The Golden Circuit
What does a man owe when the debt is written in blood and the ledger is kept by men who have never bled? Pilar Figueroa sat in the cramped, windowless interrogation room, the air thick with the dust of centuries and the smell of unwashed wool. She was thirty-four years old, a sergeant in the fortress garrison, and her hands, usually steady enough to steady a rifle, trembled as she dipped the...
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