The Distant Legend
Act I In the counting house of the port, where the air hung heavy with the scent of rotting peat and the rusted gears of the scales, Busaba Udomchai knew that the weight of a ledger was a matter of survival, not just arithmetic. He was twelve years old, his hands stained not with ink but with the black, viscous sap of the Evergreen, a fern that grew only in the crypt beneath the quarantine...
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