The Faded Sutra
You leave the city before the fog lifts. The air is thick, a grey wool blanket soaked in rain and coal smoke. You carry a satchel that weighs more than your back should bear. Inside is not gold, but paper. Yellowed, brittle, stained with the sweat of ten thousand hands. You are a seeker. A hunter of truths in a world that has forgotten how to read. Your brother, Thomas, waits by the gate. He is...
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