The Golden Ritual
The gold is wrong, Elias. It is too bright for a room this damp, and the reflection it holds is not the face of the man standing before it, but the face of a man who has already died. You stand in the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and the mildew that seeps up from the flagstones, and you watch the Chalice’s surface ripple with a heat that is not there. The Abbot stands...
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