The Distant Metropolis

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2026-08-23 21:17:50 -

The parchment shudders under my quill, the ink bleeding not just into the fiber but into the skin of my hand, a black vein spreading up my wrist like a bruise. I am Elias, thirty-two, a scribe of the Duke’s court, and I am writing this entry on the fourteenth of November, 1342, because I must record the truth before my fingers forget how to hold a pen. My want is simple, though it has grown...

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