The Golden Ritual
The air in the cellar of the Grand Hotel Whitmore did not smell of dust or decay, but of something far more cloying and persistent, a thick, cloying sweetness like overripe peaches left to rot in a closed jar, a scent that coated the back of the throat and settled deep in the lungs, refusing to be exhaled. It was the smell of the Golden Ritual, or so the whispers in the city claimed, a...
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