The Golden Ritual
The gold was not gold, but the weight of it, the way it clung to the neck of Arthur Vane like a second skin, was the only thing in the Institute that felt real. It was a medallion, heavy and tarnished, shaped like a closed eye, and it had hung from his collar for thirty years, a silent witness to the slow, bureaucratic erosion of his soul. Arthur stood before the great oak doors of the Archive...
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