The Golden Song
The mud sucks at your boots with a wet, viscous sound, a grotesque applause for your stumble. You are running, not away, but into the thickening fog that chokes the valley floor, your lungs burning with the sharp, metallic taste of iron and pine resin. The archer’s bolt has grazed your shoulder, a line of fire that maps itself across your nerves, but you ignore it. You have a weapon that is not...
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