The Wistful Atlas
The ink is wet. It glistens on the parchment like a fresh wound, a dark, viscous thing that refuses to dry. You hold your breath. The air in the Guild Hall is thick with the smell of stale candle wax and the metallic tang of fear. Around you, the scribes hunch over their desks, their quills scratching a frantic, staccato rhythm against the vellum. It is the sound of bones breaking. Or perhaps...
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