The Distant Temple
The rejection letter smelled of iron filings and stale tea, a scent that had begun to cling to Elias Thorne’s fingers, his collar, and the inside of his skull over the past three months. He held the parchment flat on the oak desk of his cramped office in the Imperial Audit Office, the wood grain dark and slick under his sweat-damp palms, while the words "Spiritual Impurity" sat at the bottom of...
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