The Wistful Atlas
The ink did not dry on the vellum so much as it sank into the fibers, a slow hemorrhage of black that seemed to pull the light from the room. Elias Thorne sat hunched over the massive oak desk, his shoulder blades pressing against the high back of his chair, while the rain lashed against the single, narrow window of the scriptorium with a rhythmic, insistent violence. Outside, the university...
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