The Golden Oath
The iron key, heavy and cold as a dead man’s wrist, lay in the center of the oak table, its brass teeth biting into the wood grain with a silence that was louder than the storm raging against the high, narrow windows of the Keep. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for time in the Citadel of Ashworth had long since ceased to be a linear progression and had instead become a viscous,...
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