The Golden Oath
The banquet hall of the Obsidian Keep did not smell of roasted meat or spiced wine, as a hall of feasting ought to, but of ozone and wet stone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a forgotten name. I sat at the head of the long table, my plate untouched, the silverware cold against the blackened wood. Around me, the other soldiers of the Fourth Cohort drank deep, their laughter a...
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