The Wistful Dinner
The fog did not roll in; it descended like a verdict. Elias Thorne, Senior Cartographer of the Imperial Survey, stood at the edge of the Weeping Marshes, his brass compass trembling in a hand that had not shaken in twenty years. He was forty-two, a man carved from the same rigid geometry as the maps he produced, yet here, in the final unmapped sector, the world refused to hold its shape. The...
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