The Golden Myth
The dream began with the smell of wet wool and the taste of copper. Elias stood in the center of the Hall of Echoes, a vaulted space that had no windows, only high, narrow arches that bled a faint, bruised purple light. The floor was not stone, but a carpet of crushed velvet, deep red, worn thin by the feet of a thousand years of ghosts. He was not alone. To his left, leaning against a pillar...
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