The Golden Maze
Could a boy of twelve really be trusted to finish the work of a god, or was he merely the hand that would break? I asked Master Shen this question on a Tuesday, the air in the Imperial Printing House thick with the metallic tang of rust and the damp rot of the mulberry trees outside, their roots clawing at the foundations of the reclamation yard where we sat. He did not look up from his ledger,...
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