The Golden Myth
Act I Enid Ithel pulled the shuttle through the warp, the wooden bead sliding with a friction that scraped against her palm, her fingers already stiff with the damp cold of the reclamation yard. The loom stood in the corner of the workshop at forty-seven of Stonecutter Alley, a skeletal frame of iron and rotted oak that had outlived three owners and two wars. She was weaving the final border of...
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