The Wistful Atlas
The breath hung in the air, thick with the smell of damp wool and old stone, as Brother Thomas called out from the corridor, his voice thin and reedy against the silence of the cellar. Elias did not look up from the parchment. He was thirty-two, a scribe of modest reputation at the Monastery of St. Jude, and he was trying to finish copying the Wistful Atlas before the winter frost killed his...
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