The Wistful Atlas
The ink had dried on the parchment, or so it seemed to the eyes of the court, a final, unyielding testament to the guilt that had settled upon Edward Ashworth like a shroud woven from the very shadows of the cathedral vaults where he now stood, bound in chains that bit into his wrists not with the cold bite of iron but with the hot, searing pressure of a disease that had eaten through his bones...
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