The Faded Chronicle
The ledger entry is simple: *Velvet, crimson, torn at the left flank. Repair cost: 4 silver marks.* You sign it with a steady hand, the ink drying before the quill lifts. The Mayor’s study smells of wet wool and old iron, a scent that clings to the back of the throat. You are Elias, thirty-two, a clerk of modest ambition and precise arithmetic. You want this job. The promotion to Chief Clerk is...
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