The Golden Ritual
The mud is not brown but a thick, viscous black that smells of iron and old blood, and it sucks at your boots with a wet, sucking sound that is the only rhythm you have left in the world. You are on your knees in the center of the intersection, the asphalt cracked and heaving under the weight of the autumn rain, and your hands are slick with a substance that is not entirely yours. You look up,...
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