The Golden Scar
The shard sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, a jagged sliver of gold that did not reflect the room but seemed to emit it, a low, thrumming vibration that traveled up his wrist and settled in the wet, rattling cavity of his lungs. He was forty-two, an archivist of the fourth tier, and he held the Golden Scar with the reverent, trembling hands of a man who knew that this object was the only thing...
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