The Golden Scar
The mist in Oakhaven did not lift so much as it dissolved, eaten by the grey light of a dawn that never quite reached noon. You stood in the courtyard of the old textile mill, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and coal smoke. Your hands, stained with indigo and oil, trembled slightly as you held the spool of gold thread. It was a fine, gossamer thing, lighter than a breath, yet it...
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