The Golden Oath
The hammer came down on the anvil, a dull, heavy thud that vibrated through the soles of my boots. I was awake, but the dream of gold dust still clung to my eyelashes, a fine, yellow grit that tasted of copper and old blood. I was thirty-two. I was a constable in Blackwood, a town that smelled of sulfur and wet wool, and I wanted the pension. I wanted it with the specific, grinding desperation...
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