The Faded Frontier
The town of São Jorge wakes to the clatter of wheels on the cobblestones, the smell of wet cork and the distant, sharp barking of wolves returning to the pasture edges. I am Antonio Rebelo, and I am packing my kiln into a cart that groans under the weight of my failure. The magistrate, Senhor Vaz, stands at the gate, his hands tucked into his coat, watching me with the patience of a man who has...
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