The Golden Oath
The glass in my right hand was heavy, not with wine, but with the weight of its own fragility, a cold and transparent thing that I had held for three days without setting it down, a relic from the vault that we were supposed to be emptying before the winter snows sealed the doors of the archive. I am a custodian of history, or so the men in the high towers claim, though I have spent the last...
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