The Golden Ritual
The brass chalice sat on the workbench, its surface a dull, oxidized brown that seemed to absorb the weak winter light filtering through the grimy window. I held the polishing cloth, a fine-grain chamois that had cost more than my weekly ration, and began the circular motion that had consumed my last three years of life. The metal resisted, gritty and cold, but I pressed on, driven by the...
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