The Golden Ritual
You stand in the courtyard. The stone is cold. It bites through your boots. The sky is gray. It presses down. You look at your hands. They shake. You do not stop them. You look at the gold. It hangs on your belt. It is a chain. It is heavy. It is bright. It was not always gold. It was iron. It was a simple buckle. Your father gave it to you. He was a man of few words. He had a scar on his jaw....
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