The Wistful Mountain
The wind off the Ashen Peaks carried the scent of ozone and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he adjusted the brass calipers on the drafting table. He was forty-two, a man whose life had been measured in inches of paper and degrees of latitude, and he had twenty days left in his service before the Imperial Survey Office would release him into the quiet...
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