The Golden Ritual
The ink was wet when Thomas Bradshaw looked up, and the smell of iron and old parchment hung heavy in the air of the scriptorium. He was twelve years old, though he felt older, heavier, as if the stone floor of the Abbey of St. Jude had seeped into his bones. In his hands lay a single page torn from the forbidden text, the Golden Ritual, its edges ragged and soft from his anxious turning. He...
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