The Golden Oath
The air in the basement of the St. Jude’s Charity Warehouse smelled of damp wool, old paper, and the distinct, metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad penny. Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were stained permanently with the indigo of the dyes he used to bind the charity’s annual reports, stood in the center of the concrete floor, surrounded by a dozen...
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