The Golden Oath
The key in your hand weighs exactly three ounces and four grains of rust, a weight you have counted a hundred times in the dark of the refugee camp, turning it over in your palm until the metal bites into your skin. It is a small, jagged thing, cold as a dead man’s finger, and it is the only thing you own that matters. Behind you, in the squalid tent where Elara sleeps, the air is thick with...
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