The Pale Bridge
Elara, come here. The voice of Master Weaver Aldous cut through the humid air of the Great Hall, sharp as a shears blade, and I felt the weight of every eye in the room settle upon my shoulders, a physical burden heavier than the wool bales I had hauled from the cellar that morning. I was thirty years old, my hands calloused from the shuttle’s friction, and I stood before the King’s ceremonial...
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