The Golden Ritual
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a grey and relentless mist that clung to the wet stone of the cloister like a shroud refusing to let go of the corpse it had once wrapped, and it was in this damp, suffocating twilight that Elara stood before the High Inquisitor, her hands trembling not from the cold that bit through her thin wool tunic, but from the terrible, humming weight of the...
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