The Golden Myth
The iron door groaned against the stone floor, a sound like a dying animal that I had come to associate with my own breath. I stood in the antechamber of the Bishop’s Keep, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and ancient dust, my hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the object hidden beneath my cloak. It was a chalice of hammered gold, its surface etched with scenes of...
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