The Golden Ritual
The reflection is yours, Elias, or it is the Devil’s, but you have no choice in the matter, which is the only comfort the water offers. I sat on the wet stone lip of the Blackwood Weir, my boots caked in the black sludge of the industrial runoff that stained the riverbed a permanent, bruised purple, and I watched the surface tremble as the current pulled at the roots of the willow trees that...
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