The Golden Ritual
The order was written in ink that smelled of iron and vinegar, a sharp, metallic tang that cut through the stale air of the steward’s office before the paper even touched your hand. You read the words twice, the quill scratching against the parchment like a rat in the walls, and then you looked up at the man standing behind the desk. Lord Ashworth did not look at you. He was examining a pocket...
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