The Faded Chronicle
The compass lay on the workbench, its face cracked like a dried riverbed. Elias Vane held it in his palm, feeling the cold brass bite into his skin. It was a heavy instrument, a Waltham precision model from before the war, its casing dented and tarnished by years of salt air and neglect. He had bought it from a dead man’s estate in a village that no longer appeared on any map. The man, a...
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