The Golden Oath
The wall of Cell 4B did not merely stand; it breathed. It was a thing of ancient, porous stone, its surface mapped with the deep, arterial veins of moss and the pale, ghostly tracery of lichen that had claimed the mortar over centuries. To the untrained eye, it was a barrier, a prison, a finality. But to Elias Thorne, who had spent the last three years of his life pressed against it, it was a...
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