The Golden Echoes
The mud is cold against your shins, a slick, sucking thing that pulls at your boots as you drag the heavy oak crate across the muddy courtyard of the village, the rain hammering down in sheets that turn the air into a grey, stinging fog, and you are sweating, not from the exertion, but from the sheer, terrifying weight of what you are carrying, for inside that crate, wrapped in oilcloth and...
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