The Distant Cartograph
The storm did not arrive with the courtesy of a warning; it broke the sky open like a cracked egg, spilling a rain so heavy and cold it felt less like weather and more like a physical siege. In the stone keep of Blackwood, perched precariously on the jagged lip of the Cliffs of Moher, the air grew thick with the smell of wet wool and impending ruin. Silas Thorne stood by the narrow window, his...
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