The Golden Oath
The heavy oak doors of the Iron Gate swing open on hinges that scream against the frost, admitting a cold so sharp it feels like a blade pressed against the back of the neck, and you stand at the threshold of the war room, the ledger in your hand heavy as a corpse, the air thick with the scent of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear that always precedes a reckoning. You are...
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