The Golden Oath
The chalice was cracked. You knew it before you did. You knew it in the marrow of your wrist, a dull ache that mirrored the fissure running up the side of the golden cup you held. It was a fine thing, the cup. Gilded, heavy, inscribed with the lineage of the House of Bradshaw in letters so small you had to strain your eyes to read them. It was the last thing of value left in the tower. The rest...
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