The Golden Circuit
The feast ends. Cups empty. You sit alone. The hall is cold. Snow presses on the roof. It is the year of the long silence. You are the Warden. Your hand rests on the hilt. Iron. Cold. Solid. You look at your daughter. Elara. She is small. She is quiet. She holds a bird. A wren. It is grey. It is still. It does not sing. It will not sing. It is a ghost of a bird. You know this. The village knows...
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