The Golden Ritual
Chapter One Was it the gold that bound the soul, or the hand that held it? The question hung in the scriptorium, heavier than the damp peat air that seeped through the stone walls of the Cypriot interior. Stavros Chrysos, forty years old and hollowed by a grief he refused to name, sat before the cracked vellum, his fingers stained not with ink but with blood. He was transcribing the name Eleni,...
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