The Distant Temple
The deed is in the drawer, Elias, and your fingers are going black at the tips." Elias did not look up from the ledger. The ink was still wet on the page for the wool shipment, a dark, bleeding smudge that looked less like a record of trade and more like a wound that refused to clot. He was a man of forty years, though the hollows under his eyes suggested he had lived twice that long, and the...
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