The Golden Maze
The brass astrolabe in Arthur Vane’s hand felt heavier than it had the morning before, a dense, cold weight that seemed to pull his fingers inward toward his palm. He stood at the threshold of the King’s private labyrinth, the iron gate groaning in the damp October air, and watched the fog swallow the geometric precision of the outer walls. He was thirty-two years old, a royal cartographer with...
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