The Golden Oath
The iron gates of the Citadel of St. Jude did not rust, nor did they creak, though they had stood at the edge of the valley for three hundred years, watching the fog roll in from the sea. They were bound by a geometry so precise it felt less like metal and more like a thought frozen in space, a lock without a key, a wall without a gap. Inside, the air tasted of ozone and old paper, of the dry,...
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