The Golden Oath
The iron taste of blood is the first thing you notice. It coats your tongue, thick and metallic, as you spit it onto the cobblestones. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and black, reflecting the gaslight that hisses against the wet air. You are bleeding from the nose. You press your handkerchief to it, but the red seeps through the white linen. You are in the basement of the old...
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