The Wistful Atlas
The count of the grain sacks was wrong. Elias Thorne knew it before he finished the tally, the chalk dust gritty under his fingernails, the weight of the discrepancy pressing against his sternum like a stone. Thirty-five years old, and his hands still shook when he held a sword, a tremor he had learned to hide by gripping the hilt with the white-knuckled ferocity of a man trying to crush a rat....
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