The Golden Ritual
The ink was already drying on the parchment, a thick, black scab forming over the words of the contract, and the smell of it was sharp, like burnt hair and old copper, filling the small, windowless room where the air had grown still and heavy as a held breath. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the heavy oak table, his hands trembling not from cold, though the winter wind howled against the stone walls...
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