The Distant Joke

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2026-08-22 19:30:34 -

The Distant Joke

The parchment lay on the obsidian table, its surface slick with the wet, metallic sheen of my own blood. I held the quill, a splinter of raven bone, and the inkwell was not ink but a vial of my own veins, drawn that morning in a cold sweat that smelled of iron and old fear. My son, Thomas, sat in the debtors’ block, the weight of forty crowns pressing on his shoulders like a physical stone, a...

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