The Golden Farce
The decree lay on the table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and authority. It was a simple form, a standard template from the Magistrate’s office in the capital, stamped with the seal of the Crown. It listed the fines for harboring the sick, the dates for the pyre, and the names of those condemned. Your name was not on the list, but your son’s was. You read it twice, the paper rough...
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