The Distant Wound
The quill trembled in my hand, not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards of the High Archive, but from the sudden, violent blistering of the parchment beneath it. I had sought this post, this wretched desk in the Year of the Ashen Sky, with the singular, desperate hope that my labor might balance the ledger of my father’s treason, a debt so heavy it had crushed my mother before I...
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