The Golden Oath
The parchment was damp, the ink blurred into a brown smear that looked suspiciously like dried blood. I held it up to the grey light filtering through the Iron Gate’s high windows, my fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the seal. It was a court order. My father, Thomas Bradshaw, Warden of the Deep, had been executed three days prior. The charge was theft of the Golden...
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