The Golden Ritual
Thomas, Thomas, the bell rang three times for the feast, and yet you stand in the mud, staring at the decree nailed to the gate. The parchment was wet, the ink bleeding into the rough paper, but the words were sharp enough to cut. *Thomas Bradshaw, Warden of the North Gate, is hereby stripped of rank for the theft of the Royal Seal and branded a traitor to the Crown.* I had been a warden for...
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