The Pale Meridian
The dampness in the Royal Archive did not smell of rot, but of silence, a heavy, mineral scent that settled in the lungs and stayed there. Twelve-year-old Elias Vane stood alone in the corridor, the stone floor cold through the soles of his thin boots, clutching a map that had been folded and unfolded so many times the ink had begun to fade into the paper’s grain. He was looking for the Pale...
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