The Golden Ritual
The letter lay on the obsidian desk, its paper yellowed and brittle as old skin, bearing the seal of the Ministry of Truth. Elias Thorne, forty years old and bent with the particular stiffness of a man who has spent too long hunched over dead languages, read the summons for the third time. It was a polite request for his attendance at the High Minister’s private session, a phrasing that in the...
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