The Wistful Atlas
The ink on the vellum was still wet, smelling of iron and crushed berries, when Marguerite looked up from the desk to see the High Cartographer standing in the doorway. The room was dim, the only light filtering through the high, narrow windows that looked out over the grey, rain-slicked cobblestones of the Citadel. She did not look up immediately. She kept her eyes fixed on the map she was...
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