The Golden Ritual
The banquet hall of the Institute for Cognitive Restoration smelled of roasted pheasant and ozone, a scent that clung to the wool of your tweed jacket like a persistent, damp memory, and you sat at the head of the table not as a guest but as a vessel, a living conduit for the collective anxiety of the department, while the chandeliers above cast a light so pale it seemed to drain the color from...
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