The Wistful Atlas
The flame licked the corner of the ledger, a hungry orange tongue that Elias Thorne smothered with his wet sleeve. He coughed, the taste of ash gritty on his teeth, and clutched the book to his chest. The Old Survey Office was a skeleton of blackened timber, the roof collapsed into a heap of rubble that groaned under the weight of the night. Elias was forty-two, a man whose life had been...
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