The explosion of Assessor Crane's marble bureau had left the Great Courtyard of
the Obsidian Peak looking like a stationery shop had been hit by a landslide.
Thousands of scraps of white vellum, each etched with the cold, violet ink of
the Far-South's legalities, fluttered through the freezing air like a swarm of
dead moths. They didn't settle; they dissolved into a fine, alkaline dust that
turned the mud of our home into a grey, slippery paste. The scent of "Regulatory
Purity"—that artificial, bleached aroma—lingered in the nostrils, a reminder
that the world's auditors were no longer satisfied with watching us from the
horizon.
I stood in the center of the debris, my chest heaving with a human rhythm that
felt too fast for the slow, tectonic weight of my soul. The Blood-Stained
Receipt on my palm was a dark, pulsing brand. It felt wet, as if the ink of my
own suffering were still being drawn from my marrow to pay for the seconds we
were currently breathing.
