The Golden Crossing
"I told you, the water takes what it gives," the foreman said, his breath a white plume in the soot-dark air. I did not hear him. I was looking at the carp. It sat in the central fountain, a slab of hammered gold resting in the black water, its eye fixed on me with a patience that felt older than the ironworks, older than the gali, older than the debt my father carried in his bones. The banquet...
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