The Golden Ritual
He woke in the dream of the mountain. The air tasted of iron and old snow. Seraphina stood before him, her face a mask of white stone, her eyes two pits of absolute dark. She did not breathe. She did not blink. She held the chalice. "Drink," she said. Her voice was the sound of a blade being pulled from a sheath. Seraphina was not a woman. She was a memory of a woman, preserved in the amber of...
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