The Golden Crossing
The heavy, cold weight of the gold bar sat in my left palm, a dense, unyielding thing that smelled of sulfur and old blood. I held it up to the light, trying to ignore the screaming in my right arm, the sensation of bone turning to alloy, of muscle knitting itself into something hard and yellow and dead. The workshop was silent except for the ticking of the clock and the wet, tearing sound of...
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