The Golden Song
The clay tablet was warm in Elias’s palm, the heat of the kiln still trapped in its porous surface. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the cuneiform script that had been pressed into the wet earth only an hour ago. The characters were sharp, clear, and unyielding, a record of the grain shipments from the northern provinces that the King’s scribe had dictated with a bored, rhythmic tapping of...
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