The Golden Ritual
The bell in the tower of Saint Jude’s does not ring; it groans, a low, tectonic vibration that you feel in your teeth before you hear it in your ears. You are standing at the edge of the precipice, the wind here not a breeze but a living thing, a cold hand pressing against your chest, trying to push you back into the world of men. Below, the village of Ashworth sleeps beneath a quilt of fog so...
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