The Distant Cartograph
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the distinction between the cobblestones of the lower city and the mud that sought to swallow them. Silas stood at the edge of the bridge, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt less like a weapon and more like a dead weight, a piece of iron that had outlived its purpose. He was leaving. The order had...
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