The Golden Myth
I woke with the taste of rust in my mouth, the dream still clinging to me like wet wool. In the dream, Elara’s face was parchment, thin and translucent, the veins beneath her skin visible like the roots of a dying tree. I was holding her hand, but it was cold, colder than the stone floor of my cell, and she was whispering my name in a voice that sounded like dry leaves scraping against gravel....
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