The Golden Ritual
The gold collar lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, heavy as a small iron ingot, its surface dull and unpolished. He turned it over, feeling the rough grain of the metal against his calluses, and then pulled his hand back as if it had burned him. The dream had been the same for the third night running: a throat, bare and pale, the collar tightening until the skin whitened, and then silence. He sat up...
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