The Wistful Voyage
The ink on the parchment was not black, but a deep, arterial red that seemed to pulse in the candlelight. It was a map of the city of Oakhaven, drawn not by any cartographer of the Guild, but by the hand of young Thomas, who had spent the last three nights tracing the veins of the streets with a stylus dipped in his own blood. He sat in the upper gallery of the Hall of Whispers, the air thick...
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