The Golden Ritual
The alarm did not sound; it screamed, a digital shriek that tore through the sterile silence of the Bureau’s east wing like a jagged tear in the fabric of the morning. I was standing at the window, watching the fog cling to the wet asphalt of the parking lot, my hand resting on the cold brass of the artifact. It was a small thing, no larger than a walnut, forged from a metal that seemed to...
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