The Golden Oath
The brass plaque on the door of the Ironworks of Aethelgard was not tarnished, but it was cracked, a thin fracture running through the lettering like a vein of lightning frozen in metal. "You are late, Master Vane," said Silas, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to scrape against the soot-stained air. He stood by the forge, the tongs in his hand still glowing with the residual heat of a dozen...
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