The Distant Cartograph
You count the hours in the draft, one by one, as if they were coins to be weighed before the mint. It is the fourth hour since you arrived at the court of King Aldric, and the parchment under your hand feels less like paper and more like skin, dry and brittle in the autumn air. The commission is clear: map the northern borders before the winter solstice, a task that should take a master...
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