The Wistful Cipher
Chapter One Dirk Hoekstra’s boots, the Kellerman bootlace of red thread still fraying at the toe, struck the wet flagstones of the Obsidian Palace as he sprinted toward the Hall of Mirrors, his hands clutching the stolen ledger so tightly the leather cover cracked under his grip. He was thirty-two, a comms relay hermit by trade, but in the blurred, timeless court of the polder settlement, he...
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