The Golden Oath
The ledger showed three hundred and twelve hours of labor, a number that felt less like a record of time and more like a debt carved into bone. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the Guild Hall, the air thick with the smell of stale wax and damp wool, his hands trembling as he held the Golden Oath, the ceremonial hammer whose handle was worn smooth by four generations of Thorne fingers. He...
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