The Faded Sutra
Elias, the scribe, was called by name in the echoing hall, the sound of his own voice stripped away by the sheer volume of the court’s silence. He stood before the high throne, where King Alaric sat wrapped in furs that smelled of damp wool and old fear, while the plague outside the castle walls turned the streets into open sewers. Elias had come from the conquered province of Veldt, a refugee...
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