The Wistful Campus
I The obsidian disc in Antonio Queiros’s hand was not a tool but a wound, its fracture line jagged as a riverbed, and he stood before the High Inquisitor in the reading room, the air heavy with wet wool and the metallic tang of fear. He had come to plead that the crack was a mark of honor, proof of his endurance, but the junior scribes in the corner, their quills scratching against parchment,...
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