The Golden Ritual
The fire took the mill first. Then it took the bread. You stand in the ashes, the smell of scorched rye still thick in your throat, mixing with the smoke that clings to your skin like a second, soot-black coat. The air is still. Too still. In Millhaven, the wind usually howls off the river, rattling the shutters of the shop, but today the silence is heavy, pressing against your eardrums. You...
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