The Wistful Cipher
The rain did not fall so much as it invaded the valley, a cold, grey sheet that erased the boundary between the river and the mud, between the earth and the sky. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the moor, his boots sinking into the slick clay, holding the brass compass in his hand. It was a beautiful thing, tarnished by decades of sweat and salt, the glass face cracked in a delicate spiderweb...
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