The Distant Cartograph
The ink in the well had turned to black blood again, and you woke with the taste of copper on your tongue, the sheets twisted around your legs in the cold of the chamber. You are Elias, thirty-four years old, a cartographer to the King, and your hands are already shaking before you have risen from the bed. The decree came down three days ago, a slip of parchment sealed with wax the color of a...
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