The Golden Oath
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a bruise under the tallow light, when you felt the first crack in your own ribs. It was a subtle sound, a dry pop, like a twig snapping in a winter forest. You looked down at your hands, stained with gall and iron, and watched as the fingers began to lose their definition, the skin turning translucent, revealing not bone but a lattice of...
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