The Golden Oath
The mist did not lift. It thickened, a white wool drawn tight against the windows of the manor, erasing the line where the earth ended and the sky began. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool and old paper, a scent that had seeped into the very mortar of the walls over three centuries. Silas Vane stood in the center of the library, his fingers hovering over the spine of a book he did not...
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