The Golden Ritual
The dust settles in your lungs before it settles on the floor. You are Elias, forty-two, and the air in this tower is thick with the scent of sulfur and old paper. You want the Elixir. You want it because Margaret is fading, her body a sieve through which her life pours out in thin, shivering streams. The rule is absolute: a drop of the maker’s blood, a measure of pure gold, and the shadows...
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