The Golden Scar
The salt pans of the Drowned Kingdom mirrored the sky so perfectly that one had to look down to confirm the ground was solid, a trick of light that made the horizon seem to collapse into the earth beneath the traveler’s boots. Leif Nordli, a goldsmith of thirty-two years, walked the pilgrim road with his shoulders hunched against the heat, which was a physical weight, pressing down on his lungs...
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