The Golden Myth
The mist in the valley did not lift; it settled into the pores of the stone, into the wet wool of the workers’ coats, and into the lungs of anyone who breathed too deep. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the Great Hall, his hands trembling as he held the clay pot. Inside, the liquid glowed with a soft, pulsing gold. It was not merely ale. It was the Golden Myth, the substance that kept the...
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