The Pale Exile
Who keeps the ledger when the ferryman forgets his own name? Crescencio Renteria stood in the salt-pan settlement’s central office, the air thick with the mineral tang of dried brine and the low, persistent thrum of the central server, a vibration he felt in the roots of his teeth rather than heard with his ears. He was thirty-four, a man of meticulous habits and quiet desperation, and he...
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