The Distant Cartograph
The dream always ends with the walls sweating ink, a black, viscous fluid that drips from the mortar of the town’s ancient defenses, pooling in the cobblestone streets until the whole district is submerged in a dark, writing tide. I woke on the fourteenth of November, 1342, with my hands trembling so violently that I could not lift the cup of cold water from the bedside table, the knuckles...
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