The Distant Cartograph
The heavy oak door of the High Hall groaned open, a sound like the dying breath of a leviathan, admitting the cold, salt-tinged air of the estuary into the warm, incense-thickened air of the throne room where the King, a man whose face had been carved from the same weary stone as the castle walls, sat upon a throne that seemed less like a seat of power and more like a scaffold of intricate,...
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