The Golden Ritual
The ash fell like gray snow upon the cobblestones of the old city, a thick, choking blanket that smelled of sulfur and burnt wool, and beneath that endless, drifting silence, Sergeant Thomas Bradshaw stood with his back against the cold, damp wall of the barracks, his breathing shallow and ragged in his chest as if the air itself had turned to stone and refused to yield to his desperate,...
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