The Golden Ritual
The rain in the valley of Ashenmoor did not fall so much as it hung, a grey and suffocating curtain that blurred the distinction between the earth and the sky, a perpetual shroud draped over the lives of those who dwelt within its borders. Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose face had been mapped by the wind and the years into a topography of deep, unyielding lines, walked the muddy path that led up...
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