The Golden Song
The wet clay of the amulet pressed cold against Tadhg Doherty’s palm as he shoved the heavy oak door of the ancestral hall open, the hinges screaming in a key only he could hear. He was thirty-two, a letter carrier on one narrow road, and the mist outside was not mere weather but a physical wall that pushed back against his chest, heavy with wet stone and the faint, metallic tang of the kilns...
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