The Golden Oath
The hall is warm. Too warm. The air hangs thick with the scent of roasted meat, beeswax, and the metallic tang of old blood. You stand in the corner, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword you do not own. You are not a knight. You are not a lord. You are a ghost in the body of a man, a refugee from a war that ended three winters ago, yet here you are, amidst the feast of the High Court. The...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews