The Golden Ritual
The dream begins not with light, but with the smell of damp wool and the heavy, suffocating weight of a woolen cloak that has been soaked in the rain for three days, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a bad penny and refuses to be spat out, for you are Margaret Holloway, or at least you believe you are, though the name feels like a stone in a shoe that has worn through the...
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