The Faded Frequency
The ink does not dry; it waits. I found the stain on the fourteenth of Frost, a minor bureaucratic error in the triplicate forms, a bleed of black through the parchment that rendered the royal cipher illegible. It was a small thing, a smudge of wetness on a dry world. I am Arie van Doorn, a border guard in the ancient town of Oud-Veld, and I want the final seal on the King’s edict to validate...
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