The Wistful Show
The ledger showed forty-three hours remaining until the solstice, and Elias counted them on his fingers, the joints stiff and swollen, the skin over the knuckles dry and peeling like old bark. He was a scholar, a keeper of words, and he had a debt to pay to the dead, a debt measured in ink and blood and the slow, grinding erosion of his own vitality. The scriptorium was damp, the stone walls...
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