The Wistful Skyline
The stylus bit into the warm wax with a sound like a tooth cracking, and Elara’s hand trembled only slightly as she carved the final digit of the debt, the weight of the bone tool pressing against the grain of the tablet, a small, dense thing in a large, empty room. She was thirty-two, a scribe of the royal ledger in Oakhaven, and the winter solstice was three days away, the deadline by which...
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