The Distant Metropolis

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2026-08-19 03:05:16 -

The mortar in my trowel was drying, a grey crust forming over the red clay, and I knew that if I did not finish the eastern buttress by sundown, the frost would come in and shatter the joints before the winter could set them in stone. I am a mason, a builder of things that are meant to last, and in the court of the Duke, where the air smelled of roasted venison and the damp wool of a hundred...

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