The Golden Suspect
The vial was heavier than it looked, a dense, amber weight in the palm that felt less like glass and more like a sealed jaw, and I held it up to the tallow light while the air in the chamber grew thick with the smell of rotting lye and sweet, cloying decay. Sir Godric lay on the straw pallet, his breath rattling in a chest that was collapsing under its own weight, his skin mottled with the...
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