The Golden Ritual
The trowel was cold in Elias Thorne’s palm, the iron handle slick with a residue that was not quite dust, the weight of it familiar as a wedding ring. He stood on the scaffolding of the St. Jude’s tower, the wind pulling at his heavy canvas coat, looking down at the town of Millhaven where the smoke from the textile mills curled into the grey November sky like dirty ribbons. Below him, the...
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