The Golden Ritual
The dream began, as it always did, with the sensation of weight, a heavy, damp, clay-like pressure settling over the eyes of Elias Thorne, who lay awake in the narrow cot at the edge of the moor, listening to the wind tear through the heather with a sound like tearing silk, and in that dream he was not a man but a creature of the old soil, a spirit of the peat bogs who had worn his own hands as...
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