The Golden Cellar
The banquet hall of the Inquisition smelled of roasted swan and incense, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of your throat as you watched Bishop Malachi raise his goblet, the silver rim catching the candlelight in a way that seemed to pierce the air itself. You are Elias, thirty years old, an inquisitor of the fourth rank, and you stand at the edge of the table with your hands clasped...
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