The Golden Oath
The medallion was hot enough to burn. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, the gold so warm it felt less like metal and more like a living thing, pulsing against his palm with a rhythm that matched his own bruised heartbeat. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant with twelve years of service, and he was running through the rain-slicked streets of New York City, clutching a stolen badge that...
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