The Wistful Atlas
The candle guttered, throwing long, trembling shadows against the stone walls of the scriptorium, but I did not look up. My hand moved with a mechanical precision that felt foreign to me, the quill scratching against the vellum with a sound like dry leaves skittering across a grave. I was Elias, a scribe of thirty years, and I was copying the *Atlas of Souls* not for the Duke’s glory, but to...
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