The Golden Ritual
The metal is a lie. I said it to the Inspector, standing in the center of my workshop, the air thick with the scent of molten zinc and old sweat. Inspector Graves stood by the anvil, his clipboard tucked under his arm like a shield. He was a small man, precise in his movements, wearing a suit that seemed tailored to hide the fact that he had no hands of his own. He looked at the "Aurum...
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