The Distant Cartograph
The ice is not white. That is the first thing you must understand, the thing that shatters the map you have carried in your head for so many years. It is blue. A deep, bruised blue, like the vein in a thumb, like the shadow under a eyelid. You are standing on the surface of it, and the surface is cracking. Not breaking, not yet. Just cracking. A spiderweb of fractures radiating out from your...
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