The rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the High Court into slick mirrors reflecting the iron spires of the Citadel, and it was under this unbroken weeping of the sky that Thomas Bradshaw, the King’s Chief Archivist, rode his horse, a gaunt and shivering mare named Elspeth, toward the palace gates, carrying in his satchel a...
The air in the counting room tasted of dust and old paper, a dry, papery sweetness that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat. He sat at the heavy oak desk, his hands folded over a ledger that was open but unread, his eyes fixed on the brass lock of the drawer beneath his palms. The lock was worn, the brass darkened to a blackish brown by decades of oils and the friction of fingers that no...
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