The Golden Oath
The first thing Elias Thorne did each morning was count the hours of light the moss required, a task that had consumed the better part of his exile in Oakhaven for three years. He stood at the edge of the clearing, his breath misting in the sharp, pre-dawn cold, and watched the bioluminescent ferns pulse with a slow, rhythmic blue that seemed to breathe with the village itself. The moss was...
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