The Golden Farce
The ink never washes out. That is the first thing they do not tell you about the Imperial Archive. It seeps into the whorls of the fingerprints, darkening the skin until the hand looks bruised and dead, a permanent badge of servitude that no amount of lye or scrubbing can remove. I am Silas, thirty-two, and I have spent five years in this damp, stone-walled cellar of the state, copying tax...
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