The Golden Oath
The stone cracked before the bell rang. It was a thin, white fracture, like a vein of frost in summer, running down the north face of the Watchtower. Thomas Bradshaw saw it. He was on duty. The rest of the town slept, or dreamed of harvests, or feared the dark. Thomas did not sleep. Thomas watched. He was a man of few words and heavy hands. The uniform fit him poorly, the leather creaking at...
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