The Golden Ritual
The dream was always the same, a looping tapestry of gold thread and rot, where I stood in the center of the village square not as a person but as a stain, a dark, viscous mark upon the cobblestones that pulsed with a rhythm I could feel in my teeth, and the villagers walked around me in a wide, terrified circle, their faces blurred into a single, collective mask of pity and revulsion, and I...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση