The Golden Oath
The roof gave way at dawn, not with a dramatic crash, but with a long, shuddering sigh of splintering oak and the heavy, wet thud of slate striking the flagstones below. Elias Vane stood in the center of what had been his workshop, now a ruin of dust and broken tools, and watched the first grey light of morning filter through the hole in the ceiling. He did not run. He did not scream. He simply...
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