The Golden Ritual
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the limestone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude’s, dampening the very air until the breath tasted of stone and old iron. I stood in the nave, my hands trembling not from the cold, which was a bitter, penetrating thing that seeped through my wool tunic, but from the weight of the ledger I held, a heavy book bound in...
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