The Golden Ritual
The air in the Hall of Judgments did not smell of stone or dust, as one might expect in a place so ancient and so steeped in the weight of centuries, but rather of a cloying, metallic sweetness, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad aftertaste, suggesting that the very architecture of the state had begun to rot from the inside out, a decay that was not merely structural but...
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