The Golden Oath
The mist in the valley of Oram did not behave like weather; it behaved like a living thing, a thick, gray membrane that pressed against the windows of the stone cottages and seeped into the joints of the floorboards. Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old and feeling every single one of them in the ache of his knees and the tremor in his hands, stood before the hearth with the golden amulet clenched...
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