The Distant Clue
The ink is cold. It is always cold in the Obsidian Court, seeping into the knuckles, freezing the joints of the fingers that must move with the precision of a surgeon. You are Elara, twelve years old, and you are the scribe. Your brother, Thomas, is in the mines. He has been in the mines for three months, his lungs already rattling with the dust of the deep earth. You want the King’s decree....
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