The Golden Ritual
The bowl was brass. Heavy. Warm to the touch, though the air in the hall was cold enough to bite. We gathered around it. There were many of us. Too many to count. We stood in a circle, tight. Our shoulders brushed. The smell of yeast and old blood filled the space. The bowl was the center. It was the only thing that mattered. I looked at it. The brass was dull. Scratched. A dark patina had...
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