The Golden Ritual
The dream was always the same: a jar of honey turning to black sludge in his hand, the sweetness curdling into the taste of rust and rot. Elias Thorne woke with the phantom weight of the vial still clutched in his fist, his knuckles white, the sweat cooling on his skin in the chill air of the Archive. He was forty years old, a man of dust and ink, and for twelve years he had served the King of...
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