The Golden Ritual

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2026-08-18 07:45:41 -

The Golden Ritual

The pot was gold. Not gilded. Not painted. Gold. I carried it. My hands shook. The road was long. The rain was cold. We were walking to the Abbey. The Abbey was old. The stones were wet. The air smelled of rot. It smelled of iron. It smelled of the earth opening. I am a clerk. I write numbers. I count grain. I sign ledgers. I am no one. But the pot was mine. Or so I thought. The pot was heavy....

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