The Golden Farce

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2026-08-22 12:17:11 -

The Golden Farce

The mist in the Blackwood did not sit; it clawed. It wrapped around Eamon’s ankles, pulling at his boots with a wet, viscous grip that smelled of rot and iron. He was forty years old, though he felt twice that, his joints grinding with the friction of years spent tracking beasts through these hills. In his left hand, wrapped in oilcloth, sat the vial. It was empty, but it was gold. The sap of...

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