The Wistful Atlas
The bone in Elias Thorne’s left hand had shattered, and the pain was a cold, white star burning behind his eyes as he woke in the damp dark of the stone cell. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the air in the Abbey of St. Jude tasted of wet limestone and old iron. He lay on the straw, his fingers twitching, the fracture weeping a thin line of red that stained the pale fabric of his shirt. He...
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