The Golden Oath
The dream was always the same. A field of white poppies. They stood rigid in the frost. Not flowers, but shards. Thin, brittle plates of bone held upright by an invisible hand. In the dream, Elias could see the light passing through them. It did not bend. It cut. He woke with the taste of chalk in his mouth. He was in London. The year was 1893. The air in his office at the Royal Academy of...
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