The Distant Cartograph
The ink moves. It is a subtle thing, a slow drift against the prevailing draft in the tower, but I have seen it for three days. I am Elias, forty years old, and the Royal Cartographer. I am here to finish the *Mappa Mundi* before the first snow, a task that will secure my pension and allow me to return to Mara in the village below. Her cough has grown wetter this week, a sound I can hear even...
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