The Golden Scar
The mist in Oakhaven did not roll in; it sat, a heavy, damp wool that smelled of rot and old iron. Elara Ashworth sat at the loom in the back of her family’s cottage, her fingers numb, the shuttle slipping through the warp with a rhythm that felt less like weaving and more like bleeding. She was thirty years old, but her hands looked fifty, knuckles swollen and skin paper-thin over the bones....
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