The Distant Temple
The letter lay on the workbench, the ink still wet and smelling of iron. It was from the Guild Master, brief and brutal. The debt was due in three days. If the coin did not change hands, my workshop would be seized, my tools sold, and I would be turned out into the street with nothing but the clothes on my back. I looked at the paper, then at the emerald brooch sitting in the velvet tray beside...
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