The Wistful Ashes
The mark was a scar. It lived on the left palm of Julian Vane. It was not a cut. It was a brand. The ink of the court had seared into his flesh. It glowed faintly in the dark. It pulsed with a cold blue light. Julian looked at it. He did not feel pain. He felt only the weight of the air in the room. The air was thick. It tasted of iron and old stone. He stood before the High Judge. The Judge...
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