The Distant Cartograph
The ink is drying on the parchment, and the blade is still wet, a slick ribbon of blood connecting the cartographer’s thumb to the edge of the table. You are not thinking about the pain, or perhaps you are, but it has become a distant, mechanical hum, like the ticking of the great clock tower in the keep, a sound that has been grinding down the years of your solitude. You are thinking about the...
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