The Golden Ritual
The iron fog did not rise so much as it exhaled, a heavy, sulfurous breath from the lungs of the city, settling over the cobblestones of District Four with the weight of a wet wool coat. It was the year of the Great Soot, 1912, and the air tasted of copper and rot, a metallic tang that coated the tongue and lingered in the sinuses long after the lungs had surrendered their own warmth. Inspector...
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