The Golden Master
The glass is already cracked. You know this before you lift it. You know it because your fingers remember the vibration, a high-pitched hum trapped in the lattice of the material. It is a chalice, thin as a winter’s breath, filled with a liquid that is not wine, not water, but something that shimmers with the heavy, oily iridescence of deep sea creatures. You hold it in your left hand. Your...
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