The Distant Cartograph
Act I Encarnacion Vargas wiped the chalk dust from his hands with a rag that had once been white, then reached for the ledger. The ink was still wet on the line for the bakery, a dark smear against the parchment. He needed to secure his pension, and the Guild demanded a conviction before the dry season ended. The wind off the plateau carried the smell of ozone, the electric air before the storm...
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