The Golden Ritual
The sword in your hand is not a sword. It is a shard of the old world, jagged and cold, vibrating with a frequency that makes your teeth ache. You are running. The forest behind you is not merely dark; it is a closing fist of black branches and wet earth, and the sound of your own breathing is the loudest thing in the universe. You are a boy, though you do not feel small. You feel hollowed out,...
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