The Golden Ritual
The wax seal on the parchment was cold to the touch, a puck of blackened tallow pressed with the King’s lion, but Sir Aldric held it up to the shaft of light entering the High Court’s eastern window, searching for the faint, impossible glow that the old wives called the Golden Ritual. He was fifty years old, and the palsy that had begun in his left hand three winters ago had now migrated to his...
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