The Distant Metropolis
The snow had not yet begun to fall on the courtyard, but the air in the archive room was already thick with the smell of old paper and the metallic tang of Elias’s own blood. He was twelve years old, a junior scribe whose hands were stained permanently with iron-gall ink, and he wanted only to decode the forbidden ledger, a task that had consumed his nights since his mother’s death three years...
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