The Golden Quest
The crucible hisses. You stir the gold. It is not yellow. It is the color of a bruise, a deep, arterial red that pulses in time with your own heartbeat. The heat is not from the coals. The heat is inside you. You feel it pulling at your marrow, a dry, sucking vacuum behind your sternum. You are Elias. You are a goldsmith. You are forty years old, and your hands are shaking, but the tongs hold...
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