The Distant Cartograph
The chandelier in the White House of Mercy was made of glass teeth. It hung low, swaying with a rhythm that matched the thumping in Elias Thorne’s skull. He stood in the center of the banquet hall, holding a brass compass in his right hand. The needle did not point north. It spun, sick and erratic, before locking onto the chest of the Director. The room was white. The walls were white. The...
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