The Golden Oath
The velvet is red, deep as dried blood, and it catches the light from the high windows in a way that makes the Golden Oath look less like a weapon and more like a wound. You stand in the center of the Hall of Records, the floorboards cold under your shoes, the silence of the Ministry pressing against your eardrums like deep water. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a senior archivist,...
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