The Distant Metropolis
The ink is still wet on the parchment when you press your thumb against the seal, the wax cold and brittle under the pad of your finger. You are twelve years old, standing in the mud of the Outer Gate, the rain slicking your hair to your forehead, and the Archivist does not look at you. He looks at the seal. He looks at the crowd of beggars and porters shivering behind you. With a wave of his...
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