The Distant Metropolis
The seal is red wax, brittle as a winter leaf, pressed into the center of a parchment that smells of damp stone and old blood. You hold it between your thumb and forefinger, the edges sharp against your skin, and you know, with the cold certainty of a man who has spent too long listening to the silence behind walls, that it is already broken. Not physically, not yet, but spiritually. The ink...
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