The Distant Cartograph
The sword bit into the oak. The wood splintered. Dust rained down. Captain Elias Thorne stood still. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. The air was thick. It smelled of iron. It smelled of wet stone. It smelled of fear. Around him, the Hall of Records stood silent. High ceilings. Arched windows. Light filtered through grime. It fell in slanting beams. The dust motes danced in the light....
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