The Faded Quadrant
The pen scratched against the parchment, a dry, rasping sound that cut through the silence of the watchtower, and Elias Thorne’s hand trembled so violently that the ink bled into the grain of the paper, forming a dark, jagged tear where a signature should have been. He was fifty-two years old, and he had twenty years of service to his name, yet the simple act of signing his own existence into...
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