The Faded Photograph
The trowel in your hand is cold, the iron handle slick with the grey paste of lime and sand, and the weight of it anchors you to the scaffolding three hundred feet above the cobblestones of Oria. You are Elias Vane, master mason, and the contract on your hip is the only thing keeping the debt collectors from taking your mother’s house in the valley; forty days until the winter rains, forty days...
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