The Golden Oath
The bread was stale. It sat on the counter, a square of hardened wheat and salt. It had been there for three days. No one in the house of Thomas Hale dared to touch it. They ate thin porridge. They drank water until their tongues felt like sand. The bread remained. It was the center of the room, the eye of the storm, the thing that did not move while the world around it spun in a dull, gray...
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