The Golden Ritual
The chisel bit into the gold leaf with a sound like a bone snapping, a sharp, dry crack that echoed off the damp brick of the studio where Elias Thorne sat hunched over his desk, his breath held in a chest that felt too large for the shrinking space of his own body. He was fifty-two years old, a master calligrapher whose name had once commanded four figures for a single line of script, and now...
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