The Pale Path
The ink on the ledger did not dry so much as it sank, a dark, viscous stain bleeding into the fibrous skin of the paper, a physical manifestation of a debt that could never be paid in coin or labor, only in the slow, grinding erosion of the self. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the corner of the communal hall, his fingers stained black from the soot of the forge and the indigo of the night-shift logs,...
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