The Golden Ritual
The rain did not fall so much as it was poured from the sky by invisible, indifferent hands, slicking the cobblestones of the courtyard in a sheen of wet grey that reflected the towering, gothic spires of the Inquisitor’s Hall. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the stone precipice, his fingers white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword, watching the drop where the condemned were meant to be...
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