The Golden Scar
The lead pot had cooled to a dull, angry red, and Elias Thorne’s hands, blackened to the wrist with soot and sweat, trembled as he lifted the tongs. He was not looking at the glass; he was looking at the gap, a jagged mouth in the north transept where the "Golden Scar" used to be, a window that had once held the light of the sun in a way that made the air itself feel thick and heavy. The rule...
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