The Golden Oath
Anahit Georgiev’s hands were already in the heat, the tongs gripping the glowing neck of the vessel as he spun it against the crucible’s roar. The hydroponics bay hummed, a low drone that vibrated in his molars, masking the silence of the prefab where he had lived for twenty years. He was forty-two, a repairman of glass and light, and the tax boat was due in three hours. The chalice was...
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