The Wistful Saga
The letter lay on the scarred oak desk, its seal unbroken, the ink still damp with the particular darkness of the governor’s office. I held it for a long time, listening to the wind rattle the shutters of the outpost, a sound like dry bones being shaken in a sack. It was a notification of an audit, signed by men who had never seen the mud of the border, but whose power could reach into the...
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