The Golden Oath
The dream was always the same, a loop of rust and steam that never quite ended. In it, Elias Thorne stood on the catwalk of a locomotive engine, the iron grating cold under his boots, the air thick with the smell of burnt oil and ozone. He held a wrench in his hand, but it was not a wrench; it was a bone, white and smooth, and when he tried to tighten the bolt, it crumbled into dust in his...
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