The Golden Oath
The ink on Elias’s arm was not black, but a deep, bruised violet that pulsed with the rhythm of his own heart. He stood before the High Archivist, a figure draped in robes so heavy they seemed to sink into the stone floor, and extended his hand. The ritual was simple, or so the brochures claimed, a signing of the Golden Oath that bound the scribe’s soul to the eternal memory of the Archive....
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