The Golden Ritual
The rain hammered against the leaded glass of the Great Hall like a thousand desperate fingers, but Sir Aldous Vane stood unmoved in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on the golden chalice resting upon the altar table. He was a man of forty-five, once formidable in his judgment and his stride, now hollowed out by the lung rot that had begun to eat him from the inside out. The house, Old...
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