The Golden Ritual
The Gilded Moth landed on the ledger. It did not flutter; it settled with the heavy, metallic thud of a coin dropped on a table. Elias Thorne, a clerk of forty-two years with ink-stained fingers and a spine curved like a question mark, watched the insect spread its wings. They were the color of old brass, veined with a dark, arterial red. To anyone else in the Hall of Accounts, the moth was...
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