The Golden Oath
The bread in the cellar was never quite the same after the third week, a fact that my master, Silas, treated with the grave seriousness of a man diagnosing a terminal illness in his own liver. It was a sourdough, heavy and dense, baked in a clay oven that sat in the corner of our kitchen like a sleeping beast. I was the one who tended the starter, a thick, bubbling paste of flour and water that...
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