The Pale Tower
The rain in the capital does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into a mirror for the gutters. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a clerk in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and you are walking toward the Debtors’ Prison with a petition in your hand that you know, with the cold certainty of a man who has checked every seal and signature,...
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