The Golden Ritual
The feast is a lie of gold and grease. You stand in the shadow of the high altar, your stomach a hollow ache that beats against your ribs like a trapped bird. The Abbey hall is suffocatingly warm, the air thick with the scent of roasted swan and beeswax, while you smell only the damp rot of the cellar where you have slept for three years. Twelve years old, and you are already a ghost in your...
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