The Golden Oath
My fingers were already bleeding before I noticed the heat. The golden thread bit into my skin, not with the sharp sting of a needle, but with the slow, dull burn of a brand. I pulled my hand back, shaking the dust from my sleeve, and stared at the red welts forming across my knuckles. The loom stood silent in the center of the workshop, the warp threads stretched tight as violin strings,...
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