The Distant Cartograph
The iron gate of the Ministry of Internal Affairs did not creak, a fact that Elias Thorne found more terrifying than any sound, for it spoke of a mechanism so precise and cold that it had long ago shed the humanity of rust and friction. He stood in the antechamber, the air thick with the scent of ozone and wet wool, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of gaslight that pierced the gloom....
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