The Distant Cartograph
The pen moved before Elias’s hand did. It was a subtle thing, a tremor in the nib that dragged the ink a millimeter further into the parchment, tracing a coastline that did not exist on the map below. Elias watched it, his breath held in his chest, his fingers stained black to the second knuckle. He did not flinch. He had learned, in his three years as an apprentice, to treat the ink as a...
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