The Faded Sutra
Thorne, get out of the way before you break your neck. The voice of Clara, the young archivist, cut through the dust-choked air of the scriptorium like a blade through wet wool, sharp and final, demanding that I step back from the edge of the crumbling stone sill where I had been staring, with the dull, aching persistence of a man who has forgotten how to blink, at the winter dark pressing...
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