The Golden Ritual
I wake in the cold. The air bites my lungs. It smells of wet stone and old blood. I am here. I am always here. The walls are black. They weep. A thin, black fluid trickles down the rough-hewn blocks. It pools at my feet. I look down. My boots are soaked. I look up. The vault is endless. It spirals up into a dark that has no bottom. I hold the key. It is small. It is brass. It is warm. It burns...
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