The Wistful Asylum
The Red Ledger sat on the desk, its leather cover unmarked, its pages thick with the names of the dead. Thomas Vane, twelve years old and small for his age, adjusted his cuff. He was a scribe in the Ministry of Internal Security, a role that required a steady hand and a silent mouth. His palms were blistered, the skin peeled back to reveal raw, weeping flesh beneath. He did not look at them. He...
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