The Golden Ritual
Santiago Iturbe had been a palace translator for seven years, a fact that made him both indispensable and invisible in the shadow of the Valdes estate. He was thirty, his hands stained not with ink but with the faint, persistent burn of gold leaf, a condition the village elders called the mark of the golden ritual. The air in the house smelled of drying olive oil and old paper, a scent that...
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