The Wistful Atlas
The frost had not yet taken the mud, but the cold was already in the air, a damp weight that settled in the joints. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth, the same metallic tang I had felt for weeks, a premonition that sat heavy on my tongue. It was the Atlas. I knew it before I opened my eyes. The parchment on my desk, the one I had sworn to keep hidden from Lord Vane, had shifted again. I...
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