The Golden Ritual
The rain slicked the cobblestones into black mirrors. Elias packed the last box. It was heavy. The wood groaned. Inside lay the shards. He held the strap tight. His knuckles turned white. He looked at the door. It was locked. He had a key. He had a name. He had a debt. He walked out. The city was gray. The air smelled of wet wool and iron. Elias was a man of small hands. He made things. He made...
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