The Faded Photograph
The ink is black, but it will not dry without the red. You know this rule as you know your own pulse, a fact of your trade in the high court of Oram, a city of stone and silence where the bureaucracy is a living thing that eats its own. You are Elias, thirty-two, a scribe of no particular renown, and you are currently hunched over a parchment that holds the fate of Lord Vane, your master, a man...
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