The Golden Scar
The count was forty stitches. Elara counted them in the dark, her fingers numb against the rough linen of Julian’s sheet. Forty stitches of pain, a ledger entry for the day’s suffering, which she would soon have to balance. The State Sanatorium hummed a low, electric drone, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of her teeth. She held the vial of tincture up to the faint glow of the...
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