The Golden Ritual
Elias, you are late, and the Minister’s patience is thinner than the paper on which you write. The voice belongs to Thomas Bradshaw, who stands in the doorway of the Archive’s eastern wing, his face pale and tight with the cold that has seeped through the stone walls since dawn. You are forty-two years old, a senior scribe whose hands have copied more history than most men have read, and you...
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