The Golden Oath
The bell did not ring; it screamed, a jagged tear in the fabric of the morning that silenced the chattering sparrows and halted the sweep of the dust mop in the town square, leaving the air suspended in a thick, amber haze that smelled of wet stone and impending judgment. Margaret Holloway stood beneath the eaves of the Old Hall, a structure of such ancient and imposing gravity that it seemed...
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