The Golden Ritual
The air in the Hall of Records was not merely stale; it was fossilized, a thick, amber suspension of dust and old ink that seemed to hang in the beams of the gaslight like a preserved insect, waiting for a breath that would never come. Silas Vane stood before the Great Ledger, a man carved from the same rigid oak as the shelves that surrounded him, his spine a straight line of silent defiance...
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