The Golden Ritual
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended judgment of grey water over the village of Oakhaven, a place that smelled perpetually of wet wool, damp stone, and the metallic tang of old fear. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the Great Hall, his hands bound not by rope but by the invisible, crushing weight of expectation, his eyes fixed on the brazier where the communal broth...
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