The Golden Oath
The dream is always the same. You stand in the courtyard of the High House, the stone cold under your boots. The sky is not blue. It is the color of old blood, a deep, bruised purple that does not move. You are holding the Scroll. It is heavy. It feels like a block of ice in your hands. You know what it says. You do not need to read it. The words burn in your mind like acid. They say that the...
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