The Distant Wound
The first page of the ledger burned before you could read the name of the man who signed your father’s death warrant. You remember the smell, a sharp, acrid bite of sulfur and old dust that coated the back of your throat, and the way the paper curled inward, turning black at the edges as if the ink itself had decided to die. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two, a low-level archivist in the...
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