The Pale Meridian
Chapter One "Will you sign, or will the ink dry before your hands do?" Mathilde LaCour asked, her voice flat and low in the humid air of the office. The Chancellor, a man whose spine had curved like a question mark over the cane fields, did not look up from his ledger. His hands, mapped with the blue veins of a dying tree, hovered over the parchment. He refused to move them. Protocol, he...
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