The Wistful Atlas
Thorne. Move your feet, man, the water is at the threshold. The voice belonged to Miller, his second, who stood three yards back in the churning brown slurry, his face a mask of mud and exhaustion. Elias Thorne, forty-two, Captain of the City Guard, did not move. He stood in the center of the flooded district, the historic quarter of the old city, where the cobblestones had long since...
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