The Golden Oath
The sky above the Obsidian Spire did not break; it bled. You remember the exact moment the stars were extinguished, not by darkness, but by a creeping, viscous gold that poured from the cracks in the firmament like molten honey, coating the ancient towers of the High Court in a suffocating, beautiful suffocation. It was a Tuesday, or what passed for a Tuesday in the timeless, suspended air of...
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