The Distant Cartograph
The ink in the pot had turned black and viscous, refusing to flow. Elias counted the drops. One. Two. Three. They fell like thick, dark tears, pooling at the bottom of the glass vessel, but none of them touched the quill. He was forty years old, an immigrant from the war-torn East, and he had twelve hours to finish the royal map of Oren to secure his pension. The smell of the archive hit him...
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