The Golden Oath
Hold the vial. Do not shake it. The liquid inside is amber, thick as honey, but it moves with a sluggish, oily indifference that makes your stomach turn. You are holding it in your left hand, the hand that has never trembled, not once in twenty years of service. Your right hand grips the hilt of your short sword, the leather worn smooth by the friction of a thousand draws. The air in the tent...
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