The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-18 17:25:29 -

The Wistful Atlas

The border was not a line on a map but a bruise across the landscape, a place where the air itself felt thicker, harder to breathe. I stood at the edge of the Shifting Fen, my boots sinking into mud that smelled of iron and old rain, the dampness seeping through the soles and into the marrow of my bones. My name is Thomas Bradshaw, though in this place, names held little weight. They were just...

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