The Distant Ghost
The debt stood at forty-two silver marks, a number that had grown in Elias’s mind until it felt heavier than the iron quill he held in his hand. He counted the marks in his head, a rhythmic tapping that matched the scratching of the nib against the parchment, while the cold draught from the tower window bit at the nape of his neck. Nineteen years old, and his hands were already cracked and...
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