The Golden Oath
The rain had been falling on the grey stone of the Palace of St. Jude for three days, a relentless drumming that turned the cobblestones into slick, dark mirrors. Elias Thorne stood before the High Chancellor, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the leather-bound almanac in his grip. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been carved by years of studying charts rather...
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