The Golden Ritual
You stand in the center of the great hall of the Whitmore estate, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and decaying lilies, your hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that has settled over the room like a shroud. The gas lamps hiss softly in their brass cages, casting long, wavering shadows that dance across the parquet floor, and you feel the...
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