The Distant Cartograph
The rain hits the clay floor of the keep with a sound like the grinding of millstones. You are on your knees, your armor dented and slick with mud, the weight of the sword in your hand feeling less like a weapon and more like a tether to a body that is slowly leaving you. Across the courtyard, Thomas stands with his back to the gate, his shoulders hunched against the wind, his sword held...
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