The Golden Quest
The loom clicks, a dry, wooden rhythm that sounds less like weaving and more like the ticking of a slow, unyielding heart. You are standing before the great mirror in the antechamber of the Palace, your hands resting on the cold iron frame, your reflection staring back at you with a face you no longer recognize. The air here is thick with the scent of old beeswax and the metallic tang of power,...
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