The Golden Circuit
The honey is thick in your dream, a golden viscous tide that coats the floor of the antechamber, sticky and sweet and suffocating. You are standing in it, waist-deep, and the air smells of burnt sugar and old iron. Around you, the figures of the court are blurred, their faces smeared with the same amber glaze, moving in slow, ritualistic circles. They do not speak, but you hear the hum of their...
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