The Golden Scar
Magnus Lindqvist had twenty-two years of service under his belt, a pension that was three months from vesting, and a wife whose lungs were turning to wet ash. The winter solstice was the deadline, the only date that mattered in the fjord town where the wheat fields stretched out like a steppe gone to dust, cold and dry under a midsummer rain that fell as hard as March. He held the golden amulet...
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