The Golden Mirror
The candlelight in the Bishop’s private chapel did not flicker; it burned with a steady, predatory stillness that seemed to drain the oxygen from the stone air, leaving Inquisitor Elias Thorne with a hunger that was not for food but for the cessation of the golden hum that had haunted his mind since his wife’s death. He stood before the altar, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the...
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