The Wistful Voyage
The question of whether a man’s word weighs more than a broken seal is one the Guild Master does not answer. Miguel Nogales stood in the scriptorium, the air heavy with drying ink and the damp wool of his coat. He was thirty-two, a man whose hands still remembered the rhythm of the match factory, though his lungs had begun to ache with the dust of other industries. He sought the Master’s pardon...
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