The Distant Metropolis
The ink was still wet on the vellum, a dark, viscous smear that felt less like writing and more like a wound I had just inflicted on the parchment. My fingers, stained black up to the first knuckles, trembled as I reached for the bone folder, the tool I had used for thirty years to smooth the edges of history. I was not smoothing an edge. I was trying to flatten a lie. The scriptorium was cold,...
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