The Golden Oath
Act I The dismissal order had been signed in red ink, a bureaucratic stain that looked less like law and more like a wound, and Odd Strand stood at the shattered stone gate of the northern pass holding the paper while the wind tore at his tunic, the year 1240 pressing down on the iron-red soil of the fjord town with a weight that felt physical in his bones. He was thirty-two, a border warden...
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