The Golden Ritual
The ink had dried on the third page, but the stain remained. Elias Thorne counted the hours since he last slept: nineteen. He weighed his quill against his conscience, finding both heavier than they should be. The parchment was cheap, a rag of wool and hemp that smelled of wet dog and old pennies, purchased with the last of his stipend. He needed this treatise on celestial mechanics to be...
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