The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-17 21:34:06 -

The Wistful Atlas

The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a steady, monotonous rhythm against the slate roof of the keep, a sound that had begun to eat into the edges of my mind. I sat by the cold hearth, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. The cup was ceramic, thick and heavy. It was the only object in the room that felt solid, real, anchored to the earth. Sir Thomas...

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