The Golden Ritual
The banquet hall of the Monastery of Saint Jude, perched on the jagged spine of the Pyrenees where the air was thin enough to make the lungs ache, was a cathedral of roasted lamb, dark red wine, and the heavy, suffocating smell of beeswax candles that had been burning since the previous evening. Brother Thomas, a man of forty whose hands were still mapped with the scars of a military chaplain...
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