The Distant Temple
The fiscal year ends in three days, and the pension office will close its ledgers with the same cold indifference that a surgeon applies to a closing incision. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a constable of the Ashworth Estate Force, and you stand at the edge of the garden where the grass does not grow but rots, turning to a fine, grey ash that drifts upward like reverse snow. The...
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