The Distant Cartograph
The mud on your boots is heavy, a cold, sucking weight that pulls at your ankles with every step, and you are holding the leather-bound journal so tightly that the corners have cut into the meat of your palm, the skin there white and bruised from the pressure. You are standing in the yard of Outpost Four, the rain falling in thick, grey sheets that turn the gravel into slurry, and the wind is...
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