The Golden Maze
Thorne. The name was called out by the wind, or perhaps by the stone itself, which groaned under the weight of the gold seeping from its pores. I stood in the center of the outpost square, my service rifle raised, the stock slick with sweat and the viscous, amber ichor that had begun to bleed from the flagstones twenty minutes prior. My name was Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border...
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