The Golden Visit
The feast was not a celebration of joy but a ritual of consumption, held in the shadowed depths of the old abbey where the stone walls wept with dampness and the air hung heavy with the scent of rotting lilies and stale incense, and I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my hands trembling as they clutched the small, tarnished compass that had been entrusted to me by the dying abbot, a...
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