The Golden Farce
The jar sat on the windowsill, catching the gray light of the afternoon. It was a common thing, glass and metal, holding a substance that shimmered with an opaque, golden viscosity. To the untrained eye, it was merely preserved fruit or a thick syrup. To you, it was the last of the blood. You had been collecting it for years, a quiet accumulation of life force drawn from the veins of those who...
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