The Distant Cartograph
The ink was wet, a dark smear on the parchment that smelled of iron and old rain, and Elias Thorne’s hand trembled not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the numbers etched into his mind. Across the candlelit desk, Abbot Silas watched him with eyes that were milky with cataracts yet seemed to pierce straight through the skin of the manor’s walls. "You are trying to draw the house,...
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