The Pale Banner
The ink was gone again. Elias Thorne stared at the parchment, the nib of his quill hovering over the blank space where the River Ouse should have been, and felt the familiar, cold hollow in his stomach that was not hunger but a kind of spiritual erosion. He had been working for twenty-two years, since the year the Council first commissioned the Great Survey of the Borderlands, a task that was...
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