The Wistful Throne
The ledger said twelve. I counted the hours in the ink-stained air, each one a grey flake that drifted down to settle on my knuckles. Twelve hours of scrubbing the memory residue off the ledgers. Twelve hours of breathing dust that tasted of copper and old grief. My hands were raw, the skin split and peeling, but I did not stop. I could not stop. If I stopped, the Guild would dock my wage. If...
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