The Golden Scar
The harvest festival in Oakhaven was a riot of amber light and heavy, cloying sweet smells, where the air itself seemed to thicken under the weight of the celebratory torches and the low, thrumming resonance of the communal drums. In the center of the square, surrounded by a sea of citizens in their best woolens, stood the Grand Warden, a figure of imposing, silent authority whose eyes scanned...
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