The Golden Song
The road to Aethelgard was a scar of mud and broken cartwheels, and you walked it with the King’s physician slumping beside you, his face the color of old ash. You carried the vial in a lead-lined case against your chest, feeling the faint, rhythmic pulse of the Golden Sap within, a heartbeat that did not belong to any living man. The year was 1348, and the air tasted of copper and rot, thick...
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