The Golden Ritual
The ink bled into the parchment not with the crisp authority of a fountain pen or the blunt impact of a stamp, but with the slow, viscous creep of a living thing, seeping into the fibers until the white paper turned a bruised, translucent violet, and you watched, with the detached horror of a man watching his own reflection dissolve in a puddle of oil, as the letters formed words you had never...
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