The Golden Ritual
The letter from the bank lay on the workbench, the paper yellowing at the edges where my sweat had stained it. It was a simple list of figures, cold and sharp, detailing the debt that had swallowed my shop whole. I signed it with a hand that did not tremble, then folded the paper into a square and tucked it into my apron pocket. I am Elias Thorne, a goldsmith of forty years, and I am walking...
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