The Golden Ritual
The ink was still wet on the parchment, a dark smear that bled into the rough fibers of the sheepskin, looking less like a decree and more like a bruise. Elara sat alone in the cold keep of the border watch, the only light coming from a single tallow candle that sputtered and wept grease onto the stone floor. She had been summoned to this outpost by the Crown, a bureaucratic afterthought in the...
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