The Golden Ritual
The bread was still warm when I left it on the stone table, its crust golden and unbroken, smelling of yeast and earth. I looked at it for a long time, my fingers trembling not from hunger, but from the weight of the silence in the hall. Outside, the rain lashed against the high windows of the manor, a relentless drumming that sounded like the footsteps of those who came to judge. I am not a...
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