The Wistful Atlas
The dream was always the same, a recurring loop of grey stone and damp air that Arthur Vane woke from with the taste of iron in his mouth and the sound of his own breathing heavy in the silent room. In the dream, Elara stood at the edge of the crumbling path that led to the front gate of Vane Hall, her back to him, her shoulders hunched against a wind that did not blow in the waking world, and...
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