The Faded Chronicle
"Look at your hands, Elias. Look at them properly." Silas stood in the doorway of the tanning yard, the morning light cutting a sharp, pale wedge through the steam rising from the vats. I did not look up. I was scraping the flesh from a calf hide, the knife moving in a rhythmic, dull thud against the wooden beam. The hide was stiff, resisting the blade, and my knuckles were split, the skin...
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