The Faded Sutra
The banquet hall of the Imperial Archive smelled of roasted boar, stale ale, and the distinct, metallic tang of ozone. It was a feast held not for joy, but for the ratification of a new protocol, a bureaucratic miracle that promised to render human error obsolete. Marguerite de Vex sat at the lower end of the long oak table, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on the centerpiece: a sphere of...
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