The Golden Ritual
"You are late for the turning of the wheel, Slobodan." The Chief’s voice was dry, like the sound of a guillotine cutting through cured tobacco, a sharp, final snap that echoed in the small, salt-crusted room. I stood there, my hands trembling not from cold, but from the weight of the key he held out to me. It was a brass thing, worn smooth by decades of thumbs, cold as the iron it was meant to...
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