The Golden Circuit
Hovhannes Markovic pressed the stylus into the damp clay tablet, his wrist aching from the repetitive motion of scribing the grain tax, while the lorry outside reversed with a long, metallic groan that seemed to have no end and no beginning. The workshop was cold, the air heavy with drying mud and the faint, sweet rot of the rice terraces visible through the high, barred window where the ice...
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