The Wistful Atlas
The ink had begun to bleed into the skin of the parchment, a slow, brown tide that swallowed the cartography of the world. Silas Vane sat in the center of the circular chamber, his legs crossed on the cold stone floor, the air around him thick with the scent of ozone and old dust. He was a man of letters, a scholar who had traded the comfort of the library for the certainty of the void, seeking...
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