The Golden Oath
The feast was not a celebration of life, but a liturgy of decay. In the high, vaulted hall of the Aethelgard Institute, the chandeliers burned with a cold, blue intensity, casting long, skeletal shadows across the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and old incense, a cloying mixture that hung in the throat like smoke. Professor Julian Vane sat at the head of the...
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