The Golden Myth
The rain did not fall; it hammered. It struck the slate roof of the hovel with the rhythm of a blacksmith’s mallet, a ceaseless, deafening percussion that drowned out the wind and the wailing of the city beyond. Elara sat by the cold hearth, her fingers wrapped around the clay vessel. It was rough, unglazed, a lump of earth fired in a kiln that had long since cracked. It held no water. It held...
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