The Wistful Atlas
The rain hit the ramparts with a sound like static. It was a gray, relentless sheet, blurring the world beyond the stone into a smear of mud and ash. I held my position behind the parapet, my back against the cold masonry. The mistletoe charm I wore on my belt was soaked through, its leaves black and limp. It used to be white. Now it was just debris. "Easy, Cade," I said. My voice sounded too...
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