The Distant Cartograph
The quill in Elara’s hand was a goose feather, trimmed to a point so fine it could split a hair, and it rested in the inkpot with a tremor that matched the dampness of the stone floor beneath her feet. She held the final folio of the *Liber Vitae* out toward Abbot Thorne, the leather binding slick with a faint, iridescent sap that seemed to pulse in the low light of the scriptorium, a substance...
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