The Distant Blade
The ledger shows four hundred and twelve lines remaining before the solstice. That is three weeks of work, at four hours a night, with no rest for the eyes and no mercy for the joints. Elias counts the strokes of the quill against the parchment, a dry, rhythmic scratching that sounds like rain on a tin roof, though the sky outside the high tower is clear and cold. He is thirty-two years old,...
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