The Faded Shield
Act I Who keeps the count when the ledger burns? Isandro Ybáñez asked the question aloud, though the room was empty save for the dust motes dancing in the slant of afternoon light. He was fifty-two, a man whose body had long since learned the heavy, grinding rhythm of labor, his shoulders curved from years of hauling linen through the narrow corridors of the asylum. The wind from the north had...
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