The Golden Ritual
The bell tolled the hour of the execution. It was a sound of iron against iron, a shudder that ran through the floorboards of the Chapel of St. Jude, where we stood in the long, cold draft. I held the chalice in my hands. It was gold, but not of the world. Or perhaps it was, but so old, so handled, that the metal had lost its shine. It was worn thin as paper at the rim. My fingers, stained with...
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