The Wistful Cipher
The parchment lay on the workbench, its edges curling in the damp air of the shop, and you read the clause one more time, your thumb pressing into the ink as if you could scrub the debt from the skin of the page. The terms were clear, written in the dry, bureaucratic hand of Magistrate Vane: the tower must be finished by the winter solstice, or the penalty clause would attach to your family’s...
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