The Pale Verdict
The ink was dry. It had been dry for a decade, perhaps longer. I traced the line with a finger that had grown stiff with age, the skin of my thumb rough against the parchment. The words were simple. A contract. A life sold for silence. I am a clerk. That is all I have ever been. In the old days, before the roads went silent, I sat in the stone tower of the Keep and I wrote. I wrote the names of...
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