The Golden Oath
You dream of gold, but it is not the gold of coins or crowns. It is the gold of rot, the sickly, shimmering hue of a bruise spreading under pale skin. You wake in the dormitory of the Convent of St. Agatha’s Mercy, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and incense that has long since burned to ash. Your head is heavy, not with sleep, but with the weight of a silence that has been imposed...
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