The Golden Master
The spear tip caught the light. It was a sliver of gold, sharp as a scream, lodged in the timber beam above. Silas did not flinch. He stood in the center of the keep, his chest heaving, the iron taste of blood thick on his tongue. Around him, the air was still. The battle was over. Or rather, it had never begun. The guards had not drawn their swords. They had frozen. Not from fear. From awe....
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