The Golden Oath
The mud on the bank of the River Alyn was slick and cold, clinging to Elias Thorne’s boots as if the earth itself had decided to hold him there, a heavy, wet grip that refused to let him go, while above him the sky churned with a bruised and violent purple that promised nothing but rain and the long, unending silence of the coming winter. He stood there, shivering not from the damp chill that...
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