The Golden Ritual
The bell rang. It was not a church bell. It was the iron tongue of the mill, heavy and dull. It struck the air like a bruise. Elias stood by the window. The glass was cold. His breath fogged it. He wiped it with his sleeve. The wool was coarse. It smelled of lanolin and old sweat. Outside, the mist clung to the valley. The trees were black skeletons. The river ran below. It was silent. It was...
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