The Golden Scar
The seal on the parchment was cracked, a jagged line of wax that looked less like an official mark and more like a wound that had never properly healed. I held it up to the grey, low-hanging light of the marsh, my fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the first distinct tremor of the Grey Wasting, a sickness that had begun in my left hand three days prior and was now climbing the wrist...
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