The Golden Ritual
The iron gate of the Sanatorium for the Preservation of Moral Order stood open, not by malice, but by the simple mechanical failure of a hinge that had rusted shut for a decade, and you stood before it in the gray dawn, your hands trembling with the specific, cold rigor of a fever that had burned through your marrow and left behind only a brittle, metallic taste in your mouth. You were not a...
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