The Golden Farce
The iron key hung at Elara’s neck. It was cold. It was heavy. It was the only thing that had not rusted. She stood in the courtyard. The stones were wet. The rain fell in thin, gray threads. It stitched the air to the earth. She looked at the door. The wood was black. The wood was old. It had swallowed many secrets. Elara touched the key. The metal bit into her palm. She was tired. Her bones...
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