The Golden Oath
The rain against the windowpane of the Director’s office sounded like static, a low-frequency hum that Martin Vance felt in his molars. He sat in the leather chair, the one that cost more than his monthly rent, and watched the condensation bead and slide down the glass. Across the desk, Director Elias Thorne did not look up from his tablet. Thorne was a man who had curated the city’s history...
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