The Golden Oath
The iron gate of the Thorne manor did not rust; it corroded, flaking away in red dust that settled on the cobblestones like dried blood, a boundary that seemed less like a barrier and more like a wound in the earth. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before it, his forty-year-old frame rigid with the tension of a man who had spent twenty years holding a line against things that did not have faces,...
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