The Golden Oath
Elara, you’re blocking the corridor. The clerk’s voice was thin, stretched over the hum of the pneumatic tubes that ran along the walls of the High Tribunal. I stepped aside, my satchel banging against the linoleum, and the sound of the tubes swallowed his apology. It was October, 1912, and the air inside the building was always cold, recycled through filters that smelled of damp wool and...
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