The Golden Ritual
The dream began not with a sound, but with a weight, a heavy, suffocating pressure that settled upon Elias Thorne’s shoulders as he lay suspended in the dark of the industrial twilight. He was not in his bed in the crumbling Victorian row of houses on Sallow Street, where the rain tapped a monotonous rhythm against the glass, but in a vast, cavernous hall that smelled of ozone, wet wool, and...
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