The Golden Ritual
14th of October, The Year of the Rye The smell of roasted pheasant and spilled claret was thick enough to choke a man, a suffocating perfume that clung to the velvet drapes of the Harvest Hall and seemed to settle in the creases of my own uniform, a uniform that had once stood for order but now felt merely like a heavy, stained shroud. I stood by the pillar, watching Mayor Elias Thorne move...
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