The Golden Farce
The hall smelled of wet wool and stale beer, a thick, cloying fog that clung to the back of the throat. It was the winter solstice feast at the Ashworth mill, a raucous affair that shook the floorboards and rattled the iron stoves. I sat at the far end of the long table, my hands wrapped around a mug of ale that had gone cold an hour ago. My name is Elias, and I was the mill’s foreman, though...
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