The Pale Banner
The ink was black, but the vein in my wrist was blue, and I had to hold the quill steady while the frost killed the late beans outside the window. I was mixing the third batch for the Pale Banner, a translation that had consumed three years of my life and, I now realized, a significant portion of my blood. The scriptorium in Krishnanagar was damp, the candlelight flickering against the walls...
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