The Pale Door
The ink was still wet on the final survey line when Elias Thorne packed his satchel, the smell of iron-gall and damp wool clinging to the air of his cramped office in Oakhaven. He was thirty-four, a cartographer of modest renown, and he was leaving for the Whispering Peaks not out of curiosity, but out of a hunger that felt less like ambition and more like a missing tooth. For three years,...
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