The Golden Ritual
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down from the heavens by a heavy, invisible hand, blurring the boundary between the wet cobbles of the lower town and the gray, weeping sky. Thomas Ashworth stood in the center of the King’s Square, the stone beneath his boots slick with the runoff from the gutters. He was a man carved from the same cold granite as the fortress behind him, his...
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