The Wistful Show
The ledger held forty-two entries, each one a debt owed to the crown, and you counted them twice to be sure the ink had dried before the cold could set in. Your fingers were stiff, the skin pulled tight over the knuckles, proof of years of grinding pigments in the damp cellar of the Royal Archive. You were thirty-two, and the air in Oakhaven tasted of wet stone and old fear, but you needed this...
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