The Golden Ritual
The letter lay on the oak desk, the paper heavy with the weight of authority. It bore the seal of the Chancellor, a wax stamp that looked less like a symbol of office and more like a dried, black scab. I picked it up. The parchment felt cold, colder than the stone floor beneath my boots. It was a directive. It ordered the dissolution of the Gilded Cipher. The reason given was the war effort....
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