The Wistful Atlas
The candlelight in the Great Hall of Aldercrest does not flicker; it holds a steady, unwavering gaze, illuminating the tapestries that hang from the vaulted stone ceilings like frozen storms, and you stand at the edge of the long oak table, your fingers trembling not from the chill of the drafty air but from the terrible, electric weight of the map you have hidden within the folds of your black...
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