The Golden Song
The spool of thread sat in my palm, warm and heavy as a wet stone, its surface slick with a fluid that was not quite oil and not quite blood. It smelled of iron and old wool, a scent that clung to the back of my throat like a swallowed coin. I held it there, in the candlelight of the cellar, watching the fibers glisten under the strain of my grip, knowing that every inch I pulled from it cost...
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