The Golden Circuit
Act I Who has the right to mend what was never meant to hold? I ask this because my hands have begun to shake, a fine, persistent tremor that turns the charcoal into a smear of grey dust rather than a line of binding. I am Liv Ryberg, forty-two, and the watchman of the North Gate in the colony of Nidaros, a place built on the bones of a drowned city where the vine slopes still climb above the...
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