The Golden Myth
The chalice sat in my hands, heavy as a dead bird, its gold surface cold and dull under the fluorescent lights of the intake room. It was not the bright, screaming yellow of jewelry, but a muted, bruised gold, the color of old honey trapped in glass. I had found it in the rubble of the cellar on Sallow Street, three days after the shelling had stopped and the smoke had finally thinned enough to...
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