The Wistful Throne
The brass compass in Thị Yen’s pocket had ticked twenty-three times against her ribs since the dawn, a sound as persistent as the work bell from the rival yard across the canal. She remembered the heat of the sirocco that had settled over the delta for three days, turning the air into a physical weight that pressed against her lungs, and how her brother, Minh, had coughed blood into his...
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