The Golden Ritual
The feast in the Hall of Whispers was a cacophony of silverware clinking against porcelain, a sharp, metallic counterpoint to the low, droning hum of the mercury river that ran beneath the floorboards of Oria. You sat at the high table, your hands resting on the white linen, steady despite the tremor that had begun in your shoulders three days ago, a tremor that mirrored the fading light in...
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