The Golden Farce
The gate is heavy. You push it with your shoulder, the wood groaning against the stone frame. Dust motes dance in the shafts of light that pierce the high, arched windows. This is the Hall of Records. It has stood for three centuries. It has seen kings rise and fall. It has seen plagues sweep through the streets below. And now it sees you. You are the Inspector. Your coat is clean. Your boots...
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