The Distant Cartograph
The rain hit the tin roof of the base camp with a rhythm that felt less like weather and more like a warning. Elias Thorne zipped his surveyor’s coat tight, the fabric creaking against the cold. He was thirty-four, and his knees ached with a dampness that no amount of whiskey could dry. Six weeks. That was all that stood between him and the pension he had bled for over twelve years. The Bureau...
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