The Golden Ritual
The train to Ashworth Mills was a skeletal thing, rattling over iron tracks that hummed with a low, persistent vibration. Elara Vane held the leather case to her chest, the weight of it a familiar anchor against her ribs. She was thirty-two, her face pale and angular, her eyes fixed on the mist that clung to the valley floor. The mill loomed ahead, a brick monolith of soot and silence, its...
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