The Golden Oath
The heat in your hands is not a metaphor, it is a physical weight, a golden pressure that throbs in the veins of your wrists like a second, hotter pulse. You are Elara, thirty-two years old, and you have spent the last decade in the gilded, mist-choked city of Aethelgard trying to weave a tapestry that will bind the Sun-King’s wandering heart to your loom before the winter solstice. The court...
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