The Golden Ritual
The lint in your apron is gray, but the thread in your pocket is gold, and you know that the difference between the two is the only thing that keeps you from screaming into the fog that chokes the windows of the Ashworth Textile Mill. You are twelve years old, Elias, though the Master calls you only "Boy," and you stand on the oil-slicked floor of the sorting room, your fingers raw from pulling...
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