The Distant Metropolis
The ink in your pot has frozen into shards, Elias, and you are holding a brass astrolabe that vibrates against your palm like a trapped bee. "I cannot file the survey if the instrument is malfunctioning, Magistrate," you say, your voice flat and stripped of the deference you usually reserve for men in robes. The room smells of damp wool and old paper, the scent of Oakhaven’s bureaucracy that...
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