The Distant Metropolis
The ink on the ledger page is still wet, a glossy smear that catches the dim light of the scriptorium like a dark, unblinking eye, and you are pressing your quill so hard into the vellum that the nib is beginning to split, a tiny fracture that mirrors the hairline crack running through the porcelain cup of tea you have not touched since morning. The air in the archive is thick with the dust of...
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