The Golden Oath
The fog in Aethelgard did not merely obscure; it consumed. It rolled off the black waters of the Lake of Whispers, a thick, grey curtain that swallowed the spires of the palace and the faces of the men who stood within them. Arthur, the King’s scribe, stood in the shadow of the Great Hall’s pillars, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the violation of the oath he had sworn to keep....
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