The Pale Path
Thorne, you are bleeding, and the ink is running down the vellum. Elias Thorne did not look up from the triangulation table, his fingers white-knuckled around the brass calipers, as if the physical pain of the cut on his palm could somehow anchor the drifting geometry of the Whispering Peaks to the rigid grid of his survey. The wind outside the canvas tent was a low, constant moan, a sound that...
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