The Golden Master
The mallet struck the anvil with a rhythm that was less like a heartbeat and more like a slow, persistent knocking against a door that had been sealed for a century. Sir Kaelen’s hand, wrapped in the worn leather of his gauntlet, gripped the hilt of his sword not for defense, but to steady the trembling of his arm. He stood in the center of the crypt of the Black Chapel, the air thick with the...
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