The Golden Ritual
The rain in Ashworth Station did not fall; it hung, a heavy, grey curtain that smelled of wet wool and rusted iron, blurring the line between the platform and the void beyond the tracks. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood beneath the awning, his uniform a patchwork of mud and dried blood, his left hand gripping a brass pocket watch so tightly that the metal had begun to bite into his palm. The watch...
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