The Golden Ritual
The quill hovered, a black needle suspended over the vellum, trembling with the precise, terrible frequency of a man who knows he is about to commit a sin. Brother Thomas did not look up. He stared at the blank space where a name should be, his eyes dry and burning, the ink in his pot thick and dark as dried blood. "Put it down, Thomas." The voice came from the shadows of the scriptorium, low...
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