The Pale Exile
"You will sign the denial, or you will sign your own death warrant, Rajesh." The High Minister’s voice was dry as the dust that coated the floor of the audience chamber, a fine, red powder that seemed to settle in the creases of Rajesh Mukherjee’s robes. It was the Year of the Iron Moon, a time when the heat pressed down on the Kerala backwaters with the weight of a physical hand, and the air...
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