The Faded Sutra
Could a man keep his soul if he kept his ledger? Astrid Isdahl asked the question in the dark, her breath fogging the cold glass of the border watchtower. She was forty-two, a woman whose spine had straightened into the rigid line of a rifle stock over twenty years of service. The new border law had arrived with the smell of wet wool and bureaucracy, a trap for the poor that Old Kael had warned...
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