The Golden Oath
The soup was cold. That was the first thing Elias noticed, the second thing he noticed, and the third thing he noticed, though the distinction between the senses had begun to blur in the humid, stale air of the Processing Center. It was a thick, beige sludge, the kind of institutional gruel that tasted of iron and boiled regret, sitting in a dented tin bowl that had seen better decades. He held...
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