The Faded Sutra
The contract for the survey of the Sutra Path is signed in ink that smells of iron and old pennies, the paper thick as the skin of a cured hide, and you sign it with a hand that trembles so violently the nib scratches a groove into the ledger, a sound like a mouse gnawing on a bone. You are forty years old, Elara, and you have spent the last decade mapping the edges of the world for the Royal...
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