The Faded Sutra
The fire started in the ledger. I remember it not as a burst of flame, but as a smell, a sharp, acrid tang of burning paper that cut through the damp chill of the archive room. It was a small thing, a single page curling black at the edge, yet in that moment, the weight of the Institution settled upon my shoulders with the crushing inevitability of a falling wall. I am Elias Thorne, and for...
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