The Golden Maze
The circlet sat in the King’s palm, a heavy band of tarnished gold that looked less like a crown and more like a shackle forged for a thief. King Aldric held it out to me, his fingers pale and thin against the dark velvet of his sleeve. "Take it, Silas," he said, his voice dry as old parchment. "You are the only one who knows how to carry the weight." I took the gold. It was cold, colder than...
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