The Distant Cartograph
The rain did not fall. It drove. It hammered against the thatch of the watchtower with a rhythmic, violent insistence, a drumbeat that matched the throbbing in Kaelen’s skull. "Is he there?" The voice came from the shadows below. It was the voice of the High Steward, a man whose power was written not in law but in the length of his shadow and the weight of his silence. Kaelen did not turn. He...
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