The Golden Oath
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the dim, candlelit archive. Elias Thorne adjusted his spectacles, the brass rims catching the flickering light, and squinted at the scriptorium’s cramped alcove. He was a man of precise habits and dry wit, a scholar who believed that truth was a structure to be built, brick by brick, rather than a feeling to be endured....
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