The Distant Cartograph
The roof of the Great Hall did not collapse; it dissolved. It was a Tuesday, the kind of grey, industrial damp that clung to the wool of one’s coat and settled in the lungs like silt, and yet the air inside the Whitmore Academy’s main assembly room felt suddenly, impossibly light, as if the weight of the century had been lifted off the shoulders of the stones. Caelum stood in the third row, his...
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