The Golden Farce
The compass in your hand is cold, its brass casing biting into the palm of your left hand, the needle trembling with a palsy that has nothing to do with the wind and everything to do with the years you have spent drawing lines that do not exist. You are Elias Thorne, forty years old, and the Ministry of Cartography has sent you to the Iron Peaks to chart the final uncharted valley before the...
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