The Distant Wound
The ledger sat in your hands, the leather cover cool and slick against your palms, the spine cracked from years of heavy use. You were Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a junior archivist in the High Court of the Pale, and the air in the vault tasted of sulfur and old blood. Your brother Julian was dying in Cell 9, his body wasting away under the Withering, and you needed the Amnesty Decree signed by...
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