The Golden Scar
The gold on the scarab was already dulling, a bruise spreading across the chitin before Marian Mazur could even speak. "It is a gift," he said, his voice thin in the humming corridor of the State Archive. "From a colleague. Deceased." The object in his hand darkened instantly, the tarnish racing from the head to the tail like ink in water. He looked at his fingers, stained with the dust of the...
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