The Golden Oath
The air in the cellar is thick, tasting of wet stone and the metallic tang of old blood, a flavor you have come to know as well as the taste of your own breath after a long sleep. You sit on the cold concrete floor, your back pressed against the rough wall, watching the single bulb above sway gently on its wire, casting a sickly yellow halo that pulses in time with the humming of the...
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