The Golden Oath
In the damp underbelly of Oxford's Carfax Quarter, where the cobblestones had not seen direct sunlight since the Second World War, Henry Ashworth-Cross stood before a door that did not appear on any map he had consulted. The door was iron, pitted with oxidation that made it resemble a topographical map of some drowned continent. It had no handle. It had no keyhole. It had, instead, a single...
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