The Golden Ritual
The rain in London did not wash the grime from the Ministry of Cultural Preservation; it merely slicked the soot onto the black stone, making the building look like a bruise that refused to heal. Elias Thorne, a man whose joints clicked with the specific arthritis of a forty-year-old who had spent too long hunched over microfilm readers, stood in the reception hall, clutching a leather satchel...
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