The Distant Temple
The ink on the contract was not black, but a deep, arterial red that seemed to pulse against the parchment. I signed it with a hand that trembled so violently the pen scratched a jagged line through my name, Elias Thorne. I was thirty-two years old, a junior archivist at the Ministry of Antiquities, and I had agreed to restore the mural of the Distant Temple before the hereditary tremor in my...
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