The Wistful Ashes
The parchment lay flat on the oak desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry, heated air of the scribe’s chamber. It was a requisition form, stamped with the red wax of the High Chancellery, detailing the precise weight of ink, the count of quills, and the exact hours of labor owed by the debtor class to the Crown. Elian, twelve years old and already bent by the weight of his station, read the...
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