The Golden Ritual
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the estate’s drive into a slick, weeping mirror. Inside the Grand Hall, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old varnish. Margaret Holloway stood before the long, mahogany table, her fingers resting lightly on the polished surface. The table was a relic of the previous century, a beast...
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