The Golden Song
The brass badge sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy as a coin from a dead man’s pocket. It was a circle of polished metal, stamped with the Crown and the words *Border Constabulary*, and it smelled of old sweat and the damp wool of his greatcoat. He turned it over, watching the light catch the engraving, before sliding it into his waistband. Outside the watchhouse window, the wind...
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