The Pale Fracture
The form was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored stock, the paper so thick it felt like cardboard against the palm. Elara held it with fingers that had gone numb from the cold in the waiting room, the air in the Ministry of Compliance tasting of copper and stale ozone. It was an appeal for clemency, standard Form 7-B, and the ink on the pre-printed fields was a dull, matte black that seemed...
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