The Wistful Mountain
The mule stamped its hoof on the wet clay of the road, and Mathilde LaCour felt the vibration travel up through the saddle into her spine, a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the damp air. She was thirty-two years old, an imperial archivist who had spent a decade cataloging the debts of the dead, and she was riding toward the high court to present a thesis on the Just System, a document...
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