The Pale Tower
The quill in your hand trembles, a fine, almost imperceptible vibration that mirrors the tension in your wrist, and you watch the ink pool on the parchment before it dries into a black, permanent mark. The candlelight in the Ministry of Finance is a low, amber hum, casting long shadows across the mahogany desks where the ledgers lie open like wounded beasts, their pages thick with the...
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