The Distant Cartograph
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in; it grew, thick and gray as wool, strangling the cobblestones until the village seemed to float in a void of damp silence. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his study, his breath misting the glass, watching the ash settle on the windowsill. He was thirty years old, though the lines around his eyes suggested a man who had lived twice as long, driven by a...
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