The Golden Ritual
The vial in Elias’s hand was cold, the glass slick with condensation that felt like sweat. Inside, a single frond of golden lichen floated in water, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic light that matched the stutter in his own chest. He had left the abbery at dawn, the frost still biting at his boots, driven by a scholar’s arrogance that his mind could outwit the decay of the body. The lichen, known...
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