Sael Corin had always been careful about ink. He’d spilled enough in his twenty-eight years to know that a single careless blot could ruin a map, a record, or, in some cases, a life. That lesson, however, did little to prepare him for what happened that morning.The sun hadn’t even risen over the city of Gallowmere, but the air in the narrow streets was thick with tension. Sael crouched over his workbench in the back room of the guild’s vault, a crooked lantern casting dancing shadows across stacks of parchments. The smell of wet ink mingled with dust. He hated mornings like this. Something in the atmosphere told him trouble was coming, though he couldn’t have said what.He was tracing the winding river of Arvess onto a new map when his quill hesitated. The ink refused to flow. Not for a second, not for a pause, not even a drip. His brow furrowed. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, shaking the quill, tapping it on the edge of the table. “Not now…”The river on the parchment shimmered, softly

The news traveled faster than smoke in dry wind.By mid-morning, the empty square where Ryndale had once stood had become a hub of whispers, accusations, and fear. Merchants refused to sell goods that passed through neighboring towns, and travelers told stories of arriving at a riverbank, then finding nothing but mud, empty huts, and silence.Sael Corin sat in the cramped attic room of the inn in Gallowmere, the Null Atlas open on the table before him. His hands hovered over the quill, but they refused to move. His stomach twisted like a snake, coiling tighter with every report that drifted into the city.“It’s not supposed to happen like this,” he muttered, staring at the map. Lines pulsed faintly under his fingers, as if the Atlas were breathing, watching him, judging him.Lysara leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Her cloak still damp from the morning, her eyes dark with frustration. “It’s not supposed to happen at all,” she said sharply. “A village doesn’t just vanish because s

Sael sat alone in the council chamber, the Null Atlas open before him. The air smelled faintly of ink and damp stone, but the weight in the room was heavier than any smell could be. Outside, the city slept, or tried to, but whispers of Ryndale’s disappearance had spread like wildfire. Kingdoms were already sending envoys, spies, and armies toward Gallowmere. Borders were trembling.The black dot pulsed on the map. Alive. Waiting. Watching.Lysara’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft but sharp. “You know what this is, don’t you?”He swallowed hard. “Yes.”“Then don’t waste time pretending it’s not your responsibility.” She leaned closer, her eyes dark in the flickering candlelight. “If you don’t draw… someone else will. And the consequences will be worse.”Sael’s hand shook over the quill. Every fiber of his being screamed not to move. He could feel the Atlas pulsing like a heartbeat, each pulse synchronized to the fear tightening in his chest. You decide, it seemed to whisper. Decid

The first report arrived at dawn. Sael was halfway through a sleepless cup of bitter tea when Lysara burst into the room, face pale, hair still damp from the cold morning air.“There’s a town,” she said.Sael frowned. “There are always towns.”“Not this one.”She threw a folded dispatch onto the table. The paper trembled slightly, as if even it didn’t trust what was written on it.Sael read. Unidentified settlement discovered east of the Salt Flats. No prior records. Roads lead to it, but none away. Residents claim it has ‘always been there.’His stomach dropped. “That’s impossible,” he said quietly. “I didn’t draw anything new.”The Null Atlas pulsed. Once. Slow. Deliberate.Lysara watched his face. “You feel it, don’t you?”Sael nodded. “It’s… warm.”The Atlas lay closed beside him, yet the sensation crawled up his arms like heat from a fire. He hadn’t touched the quill. Hadn’t even opened the map.And still, “It created something,” he whispered.By midday, the council chamber was c

Sael did not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the border. Not ink. Not parchment. Authority.Morning came thin and gray, as if the sun itself was unsure whether it had permission to rise. Hallowmere-by-East stirred below him, vendors setting out goods, children chasing one another through streets that had never known age.Sael stood over the Atlas again. The border it had drawn was flawless. Elegant. No hesitation in the line. No tremor of doubt.“You didn’t ask,” Sael said.The Atlas was quiet. That silence felt heavier than its voice. Lysara knocked once and entered without waiting. Her expression told him everything before she spoke.“They’re calling it the Mapped Sovereignty now,” she said. “A state recognized by no crown, and feared by all of them.”Sael exhaled slowly. “And the preacher?”“Has followers. Hundreds already. They call themselves the Continuants.”Of course they did.“They believe places created by the Atlas are purer than inherited nations,” Lysara cont