The Wistful Atlas
You’re sure the seal is warm? It’s been warm since I left the capital. Hotter than my hand. Don’t be an idiot, Elias. It’s iron. Iron doesn’t run hot in November. I looked at the object in my palm. It was a disc of black metal, unadorned, save for a hairline fracture running from the center to the edge. I had carried it for three days. The mud on my boots was frozen solid, cracking with every...
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