The Golden Quest
The air in the sub-basement of the Whitmore Institute smelled of ozone, damp limestone, and the metallic tang of old blood. We were gathered in the circular chamber, a dozen of us, our breath misting in the cold despite the midsummer heat above. In the center of the room, resting on a pedestal of black granite, sat the object. It was a simple thing, a brass astrolabe, but its surface was etched...
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