The Golden Ritual
My hands were already moving, the burnishing cloth working the gold in tight, circular frictions, when the dream broke me open. It was not a dream of death, but of sound; a high, thin whine, like a wire pulled too tight, coming from the chalice itself. In the vision, Mara’s face was pressed against the metal, her lips moving in a silence that was somehow louder than the noise, begging me to...
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