The Golden Quest
The bread is not for you, Elias. I am writing this from the stone floor of my cell, the damp seeping through the wool of my trousers and settling into the joints of my knees. My hands are shaking, not from the cold, though it is late November and the wind howls against the walled town of Oakhaven with a voice like a starving dog, but from the sheer, physical weight of what I have done. I have...
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