The Golden Suspect
The dream began with the smell of wet wool and iron. Maren woke with a gasp, her fingers clawing at the coarse linen sheet. The room was dark, save for the thin slice of moonlight that cut across the floor like a blade. She lay still, listening to her own heart hammer against her ribs. It was a strong, steady beat. Too strong. It sounded like a war drum. Outside, the village of Oakhaven slept....
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