The Golden Ritual
The rain tasted of iron. It fell on the cobblestones of the Royal Exchange, slicking the dark stones until they shone like wet obsidian. I stood beneath the awning, checking my watch. The hands trembled. Not from cold. From the ache in my belly. I was a constable. Badge polished. Uniform pressed. But I was hungry. Behind me, the great oak doors of the Treasury groaned. Inside, the air was thick...
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