Artem picked up his dark green pencil. As he shaded the newly acquired territories near the Black Sea, the paper began to feel strangely warm. He pressed harder, trying to get the hue just right. Suddenly, a drop of sweat fell from his forehead, hitting the paper right on the Crimean Peninsula. The drop didn't soak in. Instead, it rippled.
Artem blinked. The blue ink he’d used for the coastline began to shimmer. He leaned in closer, his glasses slipping down his nose. The tiny, hand-drawn anchors he’d placed to represent the fleet were moving . They were bobbing on a sea of paper pulp. "No way," he whispered. konturnaia karta 8 gdz
He moved his pencil toward the Polish border. As the tip touched the page, he didn't feel the resistance of the desk. He felt a gust of cold wind. He heard the faint, ghostly neighing of horses and the rhythmic thumping of boots on mud. The smell of old parchment vanished, replaced by the scent of gunpowder and damp earth. Artem picked up his dark green pencil