The Golden Ritual
The smell of rotting apples was the first thing that reached him, thick and sweet as old blood, seeping through the cracks of the cellar door before he even opened his eyes. Elias stood in the dark, his boots sinking into the damp earth, and he knew, with the cold certainty of a man who has seen the bottom of a well, that the harvest was already gone. He did not open the door. He knew what...
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