The Golden Oath
The brass caliper in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, the metal biting into his palm as he measured the width of a hairline fracture in the citadel’s foundation stone. He was a man of precise instruments and colder logic, a thirty-year-old Inquisitor whose career had been built on the assumption that every anomaly in Aethelgard could be quantified, cataloged, and purged. The air in the Archive of...
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