The Golden Crossing
The notice was pinned to the door of the chariot maker’s yard, the ink still wet and smelling of iron and rain: All guild members are ordered to present themselves at the Hall of Records by the third bell to rectify the ledger of the Golden Key. I stood in the mud, the sawmill runoff slicking my boots, and watched the grey October light flatten the world into a single, suffocating sheet of ash....
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