The Golden Ritual
The rain fell on the cobblestones of St. Jude’s Ward like a static hiss, a low, continuous hum that vibrated in the teeth. Commander Elias Thorne stood at the window of the precinct, watching the gutters overflow. His hand rested on the heavy oak frame. The skin there was thin. Beneath it, the blue veins pulsed with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He watched a pigeon shake its feathers, a white...
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