The Golden Ritual
The cathedral of St. Jude’s in the district of Old London did not smell of incense or decay, but of wet wool and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the velvet drapery of the nave like a persistent, invisible guest. It was a place where the light did not fall so much as it pooled, stagnant and golden, catching the dust motes that drifted in the high air like suspended...
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