The Golden Song
"It’s not a shawl, it’s a cage." The words hung in the cold air of the small room, sharp and brittle. Elara did not look up from her needle. The gold thread caught the weak light from the window, shifting, alive, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heat against her fingertips. She was thirty-two, her hands rough and stained with ink and dye, her shoulders hunched under the weight of the unfinished...
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