The Golden Oath
You are standing in the mud of the lower quarter, your boots sinking into the wet earth that smells of rot and iron, and you are holding a lantern that does not burn, because the flame inside is a memory, a cold blue spark that refuses to die, and you are tired, God, you are so tired, not in the way that a man is tired after a day of digging trenches or hauling stone, but in the way that a bone...
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