The Distant Cartograph
The ink stains your thumb. It is a dark, bruised purple, the color of old blood or dried plum, and it does not wash away. You scrub it with lye soap until the skin peels, but the mark remains, a small, permanent secret on the pad of your left hand. This is the first thing you notice when you wake in the damp cold of the tower room, the second being the sound of the bells tolling not for the...
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