The Pale Exile
Chapter One The city of Khorramabad woke with the clatter of carts and the smell of burnt sugar, a place where gardens slumped into lakes like permafrost giving way to ice. Roxana Nouri, thirty-two, sat in the archive’s typing pool, her fingers flying over the keys while the light from the streetlamps cut sharp, diagonal bars across the carbon copies. She wanted a pension. She needed the...
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