The Golden Ritual
The mist that clung to the Valley of Aethelgard was not merely moisture but a living thing, a dense and breathing veil that tasted of iron and old, crushed violets, and it was into this thick, suffocating air that the scholar Aldous Thorne trudged, his boots sinking deep into the loam that felt less like earth and more like the flesh of a sleeping giant, for he had come seeking the truth that...
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