The Golden Ritual
The ink on the parchment is not black. It is a deep, arterial red that dries to a bruised purple, and you know this because you have spent three decades smelling the iron tang of it before it even touches the skin. You sit in the high chair of the Inquisitor’s office, the leather creaking under the weight of your ceremonial armor, which is heavy enough to break a lesser man’s back but feels...
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