The Faded Portrait
The brass dividers in your hands are cold, heavier than they look, their edges worn smooth by twenty years of your thumb. You hold them against the damp stone of the Undercroft, the metal biting into your palm, and the silence is absolute, a physical weight that presses against your eardrums. You are Elias Thorne, a cartographer of the third rank, and you have been here since midnight, trying...
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