The Golden Ritual
Elias. The name was not spoken so much as it was stamped into the air by Marcus’s pen, a dry, rhythmic tapping against the mahogany desk that seemed to vibrate with the weight of twenty years of silence. You sat there, forty-two years old, your spine a rusted hinge, listening to the clock in the corner tick with the heavy, indifferent precision of a guillotine blade falling, while the light...
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