The Golden Ritual
The brass of the ceremonial saber catches the gaslight, fracturing it into a thousand jagged, golden teeth that gnaw at the back of your skull. You stand in the center of the ballroom, the floorboards beneath your polished boots feeling less like oak and more like the deck of a ship slowly listing into the dark, and you wait for the applause that will not come. The air is thick with the scent...
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