The Faded Quadrant
The morning you left the village of Oakhaven, the mist was so thick it seemed to have a texture, a heavy, woolen weight that pressed against your lungs and dampened the sound of your own footsteps on the cobblestones, which were slick with the previous night’s rain and the condensation of the early dawn, and you carried in your satchel not gold or jewels, but a single, unmarked sheet of...
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