The Golden Myth
Eoin Whelan stood in the public square, his hands empty and his identity as the Guildmaster’s son erased, watching the gold threads turn to ash in the wind. The heat from the pyre was a physical weight against his face, a dry, sulfurous bite that smelled of burnt silk and old secrets. He had been standing there for an hour, since the High Council’s secretary had fed the last strip of the sash...
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