The Golden Oath
The cart wheels groaned against the packed earth of the King’s highway, a sound like the grinding of old bones. Elias Vane sat low in the driver’s seat, his hands wrapped around the reins, knuckles white. He was a man built for endurance rather than speed, broad-shouldered and quiet, with the kind of face that weather had etched into lines of permanent concern. In the bed of the cart, covered...
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