The Golden Master
The golden thread lay in your palm, cold and slick as a eel, its surface catching the dim light of the workshop in a way that felt less like reflection and more like a warning. You are Elara, thirty-two, and the weight of the Master’s title sits on your shoulders not as honor but as a leaden yoke, tightening with every passing hour of the week. The ceremonial cloth for the Harvest Festival is...
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