The Wistful Atlas
The warden’s voice cracked like a whip across the gravel, slicing through the damp October air that smelled of wet wool and rotting turnips. "Vane! You are to report to the administration block immediately, or I shall have the guards drag you by your hair." Silas stood in the yard, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coarse prison smock, feeling the cold seep through the fabric and...
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