The Golden Ritual
The rotunda of the Imperial Ministry of War did not smell of glory, but of dust and the faint, sweet rot of decaying paper. Captain Elias Thorne stood before the mahogany desk of Director Vane, his lungs a cage of rusted iron that tightened with every shallow breath he took. He was forty-two years old, though his face carried the hollowed, grey look of a man who had seen three winters in the...
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