The Golden Ritual
The dream is always the same. You are standing in the basement of the Oakhaven Library, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and old paper. The walls breathe. Not metaphorically. The fungal mats, the Whispering Moss, pulse with a faint, bioluminescent green that shifts to a sickly gold when you look at them directly. In the dream, you hear your own voice, but it is coming from the moss,...
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