The Golden Ritual
The gavel struck. Margaret did not blink. The sound was dry. It cracked in the air like a knuckle. She stood. The leather of her chair groaned under her weight. It was a small sound. It was the loudest thing in the room. The room was white. Too white. The light from the high windows was sterile. It stripped the color from the walls. It stripped the color from the faces. There was no shadow...
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