The Golden Master
The banquet hall smells of wax and old blood. You sit. The candles are tall. They burn without smoke. Around you, the scholars eat. They speak in low tones. They speak of the tree. The Golden Master. It stands in the center of the room. It is not a man. It is not a tree. It is both. It is neither. It is the thing that holds the roof up. It is the thing that holds the light in. You touch your...
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