The Golden Song
The dream is not of the castle, but of the glass. You remember the shards before you remember the pain, a kaleidoscope of fractured light trapped in the hollow of your palm. You wake with the scent of iron and old stone in your nose, the air thick and unbreathable, heavy with the weight of centuries that have settled into the mortar of the walls. You are in the Antechamber of the High Court, a...
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