The Faded Shield
Act I "Debt of Transport: 40 Dinars, due at the Bridge of Tunis." The ink on the ledger page was still wet, a dark bruise against the parchment, and I read it again to ensure the numbers had not shifted in the heat. I am Nadia Mansour, forty-two years old, a merchant of salt and iron, and the Ashen Road stretches before me like a white tongue lolling out of a fevered mouth. The wind has...
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