The Wistful Atlas
The count was three hundred and twelve steps from the gate to the iron bars of the dungeon, a number Elias had memorized in the dark, counting each drag of his boots against the wet stone. He was thirty-two, a man whose body had been shaped by the rigid lines of the royal guard, but today his shoulders felt hollowed out, as if the air inside him had been sucked away by the cold. He stood in the...
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