The Golden Crossing
The gold thread was heavy, heavier than wool, heavier than the iron shuttles that clattered against the wooden beams of the loom room, and Elara held it in her left hand, feeling the warmth of it seep into her palm like a brand. It was a thin, hairline thing, brighter than the sun that had not risen in Oakhaven for three days, and it hummed against her skin with a low, persistent vibration that...
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