The Golden Ritual
The rain fell in silver threads. It washed the cobblestones of Ashwick. The mud turned to black sludge. Silas Vane stood in the mud. He wore a uniform of grey wool. The fabric clung to his back. It was heavy. It was wet. It smelled of damp stone and old iron. He held his rifle. The wood was smooth. The metal was cold. He did not look up. He looked at his boots. They were polished. The shine was...
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