The Golden Oath
The ink is cold. It does not burn like acid, but it chills the blood, a sensation that starts in the fingertips and settles deep in the marrow. I am Elias Thorne, a linguist, and I am running. The city of Aethelgard is burning behind me, the smoke thick enough to taste, metallic and sweet. In my arms, I clutch the Codex. It is a leather-bound volume, heavy with the weight of centuries,...
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