The Pale Bonsai
The writ lay on the table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and vinegar. It was a heavy document, bound in leather that cost more than a laborer’s weekly wage, and it bore the seal of the Guild Master, a red wax circle that looked like a dried drop of blood. Elias Thorne stared at it, his hands trembling not from fear but from the stiffness that had begun to creep into his knuckles. He was a...
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