The Golden Oath
The brass gear sat on the table. It was cold. It was heavy. It did not turn. Arthur Vane held his breath. The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of machine oil and old dust. It tasted like iron. It tasted like time. He looked at the gear. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. They were old. They were stained with grease that would not wash out. The room was vast. It was high. The...
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