The Golden Oath
The bell tolls. It is not a sound of warning, but of arrival. The iron tongue strikes the bronze rim with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat in your own chest. You stand on the gallery of the Old Mint, the air thick with the smell of ozone and heated copper. Below, the floor is a sea of black coats and white faces. They are waiting. You are waiting. The machine is ready. It hums, a low,...
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