The Golden Oath
The air in the royal mint of King’s Cross Station, a subterranean cathedral of steam and brass that had long since ceased to be merely a railway terminus but had become a sovereign entity of its own, smelled of ozone, wet wool, and the metallic tang of old blood. Elias Thorne stood before the Great Coining Press, his hands resting on the cold iron handles, feeling the vibration of the machinery...
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