The Wistful Atlas
The order was written in blue ink on thin, brittle paper, the kind that disintegrated if you breathed on it too hard. You read it twice, your fingers slick with mud and blood, the edges of the parchment fraying under your grip. It was a directive from General Vane, signed with a flourish that looked less like a signature and more like a jagged tear in the fabric of command. It ordered you,...
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