The Distant Cartograph
The charcoal stick was cold in Elias Thorne’s hands, its surface slick with the dampness of the cellar air, and he held it against the vellum with a grip that had begun to ache hours ago. The map of the northern ridge was nearly finished, the contour lines drawn with a precision that belied the shaking of his wrists, but in the margins, where the ink should have been dry and black, faint grey...
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