The Golden Ritual
The rain does not fall so much as it is thrown, a cold, horizontal lash against the high, arched windows of the Grand Hall, blurring the world outside into a smear of gray mud and dying leaves. You stand at the center of the polished oak floor, the wood cold and unyielding beneath the heavy leather of your boots, and you feel the weight of the silence pressing against your eardrums, a physical...
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