The Golden Ritual
The dream was always the same: a fine, metallic powder settling on the tongue, tasting of copper and old coins. Thomas woke with the phantom grit still on his teeth, the cellar air thick with the damp rot of the Abbey’s foundations. He was forty years old, his hands stained permanently with ink and saffron, and he wanted only one thing: to brew the Golden Elixir. The Abbot’s cough had grown...
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