The Golden Oath
Act I "Eighty-four of the Salt Gate, you say? That’s where the old machines went to die, Pierre Etienne, not where you keep your dignity." I wiped the grease from my hands onto a rag that had seen better decades, the smell of stale sardine oil and rusted iron clinging to the fibers like a second skin. The room smelled of damp wool and the metallic tang of blood, a scent that had settled into...
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