The Wistful Campus
I Could you tell me, in all honesty, whether the stain on your hand is a mark of your labor or a brand of your sin? The question hung in the scriptorium, suspended between the smell of damp cork and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Ana Barros looked at her own fingers, the dark ink of the Ledger of Tides seeping into the whorls of her skin, and felt the weight of the Council’s gaze settle on...
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