The Golden Oath
The stone in your hand is cold, a slab of grey slate that feels less like a building material and more like a piece of your own frozen heart, and you hold it up to the light to check the fracture lines before you even think of the baron who is watching from the balcony above. You are Elias, forty-two years old, a master mason whose hands are mapped with scars from twenty years of chiseling, and...
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