The Golden Scar
Yasaman Tehrani owed forty silver marks to the temple granary, a debt that had compounded since the winter the aqueduct first cracked. He was thirty-four, a Master Artificer with hands that smelled permanently of iron filings and turpentine, and he stood in the damp dark of the central conduit, watching the Golden Scar pulse against the stone. It was not a metaphor. It was a fissure in the...
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