The Golden Farce
You hold the chalice in your hands. It is not gold, not really, though it shines with a dull, sickly luster that catches the candlelight and throws it back at you in jagged shards. It is heavy. Heavier than it should be. The metal is cold against your palms, a cold that seeps past the skin and settles in the bones. You have held it for three days. You have not eaten. You have not slept. You are...
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