The Distant Whispers
Who says a man is guilty because his hands are clean? Duarte Ulhao stood before the Chief Minister, the heavy vial of crushed jade elixir trembling in my fist, the air in the imperial chamber heavy with wet plaster and rotting figs. I had served the palace for twenty years, my back curved from the weight of duties no one thanked me for, and now they looked at me as if I were a stain on the...
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