The Distant Cartograph
The brass compass lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, its needle trembling with a sluggish, drunken wobble that mirrored his own unease. It was a fine instrument, engraved with the crest of the Royal Cartographic Society, and it felt heavy with the weight of the lie he had just committed. He stood before the window of his cramped office, watching the rain streak the glass, while the sound of the...
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