The Golden Ritual
The feast begins in the dark, a sprawling banquet of rot and rust that has colonized the marrow of your bones. You are not a guest. You are the plate. The hall is the cavern of your own chest, and the guests are the ailments that have taken residence there, feasting on the life force you once called health. The air is thick with the smell of iron and wet wool, the scent of the old country, of...
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