The Distant Wound
Act I "Item 44: Skin, unblemished. Debt, null." Jiri Novak stared at the ledger entry, the ink still wet and black as a bruise. He was forty years old, a Palace Guard with a back that ached when the drizzle turned to sleet, and the paper smelled of stale pine resin and the cold. Outside the registry window, the queue of supplicants stretched down the cobblestones, a grey snake of wool coats and...
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