The Distant Blade
The ink was still wet. It smelled of iron and rot. I held the ledger up to the gaslight, my fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the symbol. It was a glyph, sharp and angular, carved into the paper with a precision that defied the hand. A mark of binding. A mark of debt. I had spent three weeks in the archives of the City Hall, digging through the water-logged ledgers...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews