The Golden Oath
The dream was always the same, a precise architectural failure of the self, where Elias Thorne looked down at his hands, the instruments of his trade, and watched the skin and bone disintegrate into fine, grey silt that drifted away on a wind he could not feel. He woke with a gasp, the sweat cooling on his forehead in the sterile chill of the hospital room, the rhythmic beep of the monitor the...
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