The Golden Ritual
The chalice was cold. Elias Thorne wiped the tarnish from the rim with a soft cloth, his breath fogging in the small, drafty archive. He had not slept in three days. The metal drank his warmth. Each pass of the rag left a streak of dull gray where the gold had been, as if the object were starving. Elias pressed harder. The Whisper started in his teeth, a low, grinding vibration that traveled up...
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