The Golden Oath
The hall is a cavern of gold leaf and sweat, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, spilled wine, and the musk of three hundred bodies pressed together for the harvest festival. You are standing at the edge of the dais, your fingers white-knuckled around the stem of a flute of Sauternes, watching the crowd swirl like a brown river around the rocks of the stage. The noise is a...
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