The Golden Ritual
Act I "You think the gold remembers what it was before it was struck?" I asked, my fingers hovering over the tarnished surface of the mask, the metal cold enough to bite through the skin of my knuckles. The light in the workshop was failing, the amber glow of the gas lamps thinning into a bruised purple that clung to the corners of the room like damp wool. I was Fernando Guzmán, master...
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