The Pale Garden
The ink bled, a dark red weeping from the parchment as the moonlight struck the table, and Jesus Bermejo watched it spread like a wound that refused to close. He was thirty-two, a scribe of the court, and he had not slept in three days, driven by the wasting sickness of his younger sister Elara, who lay in the nursery beyond the archive, her breath a shallow rattle of clay in the silence. The...
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