The Golden Ritual
The bone in my left hand had not set, and I knew this not by the pain, which had long since dulled into a dull, humming ache, but by the way the skin stretched tight and translucent over the protruding shards, a map of my own breaking that I could trace with a trembling, ruined finger as I sat before the great oak desk in the study of the House of Oakes. It was the fourteenth of November, and...
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