The Golden Ritual
The iron gates of the Citadel of Saint Jude did not open for you, but rather seemed to exhale a cold, metallic sigh that settled into your lungs like the dust of centuries, a breath that tasted of rust and old prayers and the distinct, coppery tang of blood that had long since dried into the stone. You stood at the threshold of the courtyard, your armor clinking softly against the silence, a...
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