The Distant Wound
The form was three pages long, printed on heavy, cream-colored stock that smelled faintly of sulfur and old pennies. Elias Thorne held the pen, a standard Ministry-issue steel nib, and looked at the signature line. The ink in the well was black, so black it seemed to pull the light from the dim office. He signed. The paper accepted the mark, and immediately, a cold, jagged line of pain split...
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