The Golden Maze
The mud of the Weeping Valley sucked at Elara’s boots with a wet, deliberate hunger, dragging her down into the earth as if the ground itself were trying to swallow her whole. She stood with her back against a rotting oak, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the broken hilt of her sword still clutched in a hand that trembled not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of time. Three...
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