The Distant Metropolis
The seal on the envelope was black wax, pressed with the sigil of the High Court, a stylized eye weeping a single, perfect tear. It sat on the heavy oak desk, unopened, waiting for my hand to break it. I had been waiting for it for three weeks. In the interim, the air in the Hall of Judgment had grown thick, saturated with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of impending verdicts. I am...
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