The Golden Ritual
The wind outside the chapel window was a physical thing, a cold hand pressing against the glass, and Marco Ferraro knew the sound of the rain on the roof was the sound of his own drowning. He was a man of thirty-two, a squire in name only, his hands roughened by the repair of wind turbines on the high pastures where the wolves had returned to haunt the edges of the student protest zones. His...
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