The Golden Ritual
The banquet hall smelled of wax and old sweat, a cloying perfume that clung to the backs of their throats. It was a room without windows, a box of dark mahogany and heavy velvet where the air hung still and thick, pressing against the skin like a wet wool blanket. Captain Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long table, his uniform pressed sharp, the brass buttons on his tunic catching the dim...
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