The Golden Oath
The year is 1348, and the air in York tastes of copper and rot. You sit alone in the cramped scriptorium, the door barred against the wind that howls through the streets like a wounded beast. In your lap rests a golden ring, cold to the touch, humming with a low, persistent vibration that travels up your arm and settles in your marrow. Your concrete want is simple and desperate: you must...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews