The Distant Cartograph
The iron gates of the Bastille had not just closed; they had fused, a sudden and terrible welding of steel that sealed the courtyard in a tomb of shadow and cold. It was not a storm that had done this, nor the hand of any man. It was simply a fact, as immutable as gravity, that the air had turned to stone and the exit was gone. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the yard, his breath pluming in...
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