The Golden Ritual
You have the circlet in your hand, Elias, and the cold is seeping through the leather of your glove, biting into the knuckles where you have worn the skin raw from years of gripping sword hilts. It is a small thing, no larger than a man’s fist, yet it weighs more than the iron mail you wear, more than the debt that has swallowed your brother Thomas whole. The mist in the highlands does not roll...
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