The Golden Ritual
The soup was thin, a greyish broth that smelled of boiled turnips and old iron, and Elias held the wooden bowl with a trembling hand that had long since forgotten how to grip a sword. He sat on the cold stone floor of the undercroft, the vaulted ceiling above him lost in shadow, while the heavy oak door behind him groaned in the wind that howled through the narrow slit of the window. Outside,...
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