The Wistful Atlas
The blood was hot and copper-tasting, slicking the rim of his mouth, and the air in the cell was thick with the smell of wet wool, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of the iron bars that had not been polished in a century, so that Caelen’s knuckles were raw and splitting as he pressed his body against the cold, damp stone, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to swallow him whole, his mind...
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