The Wistful Atlas
You walk into the city of St. Jude with nothing but a sack of dried fish and a heart that beats like a broken drum. It is the year 1348, or perhaps a year that does not exist, a time when the calendar has slipped from its hinge and the days are indistinguishable gray slabs of lead. The air tastes of iron and wet wool. You are not here for glory. You are here because the village of Oakhaven is...
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