The Distant Temple
The ink on the ledger was not black, but a deep, bruised violet that seemed to absorb the light from the overhead fluorescent tubes. Elara Holloway held the page with tongs, her fingers trembling not from cold, but from the dry, scraping sensation of the shadows licking at the skin of her wrists. She was thirty-four years old, a junior archivist in the Ministry of Internal Records, and she...
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