The Golden Oath
The ledger book lay open on the table, its pages thick with the ink of eleven years, and Elias Thorne counted the final three signatures required to keep the mill from the bank’s cold, unyielding grasp. The air in the banquet hall of Oakhaven tasted of stale beeswax and damp wool, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad penny. Outside, the fog pressed against the high windows,...
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