The Golden Oath
Act I Could a building truly remember the weight of its own silence, or was that merely the static humming in the walls? Petr Dvorak stood in the server room of the retraining center, his breath fogging in the air that was cold as March despite the midsummer rain lashing against the high windows. He was forty-five, a senior archivist, and his hands, usually steady with the precision of a man...
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