The Golden Oath
The brass buttons on my father’s coat were the only things in the valley of Aethelgard that did not tarnish, and I spent my entire childhood convinced that they were the suns of a trapped, miniature universe, holding their light in defiance of the grey, eternal fog that rolled down from the peaks. We were tanners and dyers, my father and I, living in the shadow of the Great Mill, a place where...
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