The Golden Oath
The air in the foundry tasted of sulfur and burnt ambition, a thick, metallic fog that clung to the back of your throat and settled in the lungs like lead shot, so that when you opened your mouth to speak, the words came out hollow, stripped of their human warmth by the sheer industrial violence of the space. You stood before the Great Crucible, that molten heart of the factory, watching the...
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