The Faded Sutra
My fingers were black with indigo dye when I began the catalog, the ink of the ledger bleeding into the cotton gloves I wore to hide my trade. I am Fatima Amin, junior archivist in the Ministry of Cultural Preservation, and I wanted only the promotion that Hahn promised if I could prove the spiritual inferiority of the Eastern texts seized from the guild houses. The room smelled of wet wool and...
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