The Distant Cartograph
The banquet hall in the village of Oakhaven was a cathedral of smoke and stale wine, its high ceilings lost in the gloom of hanging lanterns that flickered like dying insects. The air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb and the sharper, metallic tang of fear. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his hands resting on the polished wood, fingers twitching as if trying to...
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