The Distant Cartograph
The seed was warm in my palm, a small, hard thing that defied the chill of the stone cellar, pulsing with a faint, internal heat that had nothing to do with my own blood. I held it up to the single, guttering tallow candle, its surface a deep, bruised purple, and for a moment the only sound in the vault was the wet, rhythmic thumping coming from the floorboards above, a sound that mimicked a...
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