You stand at the threshold of the old stone chapel, the air thick with the scent of wet moss and decaying timber, and you feel the weight of the years pressing down upon your shoulders like a physical burden that has long since fused with your bones. It is the age of legends, where the mist does not merely obscure the path but seems to consume it, turning the world into a grey, breathing entity...
The steam from the radiator hissed in a low, constant drone that filled the narrow holding cell of the precinct station, a sound that had become the only rhythm to which Elias Thorne’s heart would beat over the past three days. He sat on the wooden bench, his knees drawn up to his chest, his heavy wool coat still wrapped around his shoulders despite the stifling heat of the industrial boiler...
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