The Faded Quadrant
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of the ancient capital, a sound like bone grinding on bone. Margaret sat in the back, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The air inside smelled of damp wool and old paper. Ahead, the spires of the High Court pierced the grey sky, sharp and indifferent. She had traveled for three days to reach this place. Three days of...
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