The Golden Ritual
The bell tower of Saint Jude’s did not ring. It cracked. It was a sound like a knuckle breaking in the silence of the morning, a sharp, wet fracture that echoed off the slate roofs of the valley town. Thomas Ashworth stood on the cobblestones below, his hands still wrapped around the heavy rope, his knuckles white and trembling. He was a man built for the watch, a broad-shouldered sentinel in...
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