The Golden Oath
The obsidian slab in the center of the nave did not reflect the dust motes dancing in the shafts of morning light; it reflected the dead. I stood alone in the unfinished cathedral of St. Jude, the chisel in my hand heavy as a lead weight, staring into the black glass where my brother Thomas’s face stared back. It was the same face he had worn three years ago when the fever took him, pale and...
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