The Faded Chronicle
The compass in Elias Thorne’s hand spun lazily, the needle trembling before settling on a point that was not north. He adjusted his spectacles, the brass rims catching the pale, diffused light of the morning, and looked at the map spread across his knee. The paper was heavy, cream-colored, bought from a stationer in York who had smiled too widely when he heard the name of the place. "Whispering...
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