The Golden Ritual
The bell tolled seven times. The sound was not heard in the air but in the marrow, a low thrum that vibrated against the ribs of the old woman standing by the window. Outside, the snow fell in sheets, erasing the path to the village, erasing the world beyond the glass. Inside, the fire died. It did not crackle or pop. It simply ceased, as if the heat had been a borrowed thing and the owner had...
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