The Distant Metropolis
The letter from the Pension Office arrived on a Tuesday, folded into a neat, bureaucratic square that smelled faintly of damp wool and ink. Arthur Vane stood at the head of the fencing hall, the air thick with the metallic tang of sweat and old wood, and read the notification twice before his fingers began to tremble slightly. It was a standard form, the kind used for ten thousand civil...
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