The Golden Farce
The vault of King’s Keep did not smell of dust, but of ozone and old blood, a scent that clung to the inside of Sir Kaelen’s throat like a physical weight. He stood in the center of the sealed chamber, the air thick with a low, humming vibration that made his teeth ache, while the Gilded Collar in his hands pulsed with a warmth that felt less like metal and more like a living vein. For twenty...
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