The Golden Visit
The ash on Lucien Zeringue’s left hand did not hurt so much as it hummed, a low frequency that rattled the teeth of the infirmary cot where he lay chained by the wrist. He remembered the morning it started, the way the skin on his knuckles had turned grey and flaked away like old paint, a sign the Rot had finally claimed its due. He had been a scribe for twelve years, a man of ink and...
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