The Iron Court
I The fog in London did not merely obscure; it devoured. It swallowed the gas lamps whole, leaving only pale, sickly halos that failed to reach the cobblestones below. Edgar Thorne walked through it like a ghost through his own life, his shoulders hunched against the damp, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a coat that had belonged to a father he barely remembered. At eighteen, Edgar stood...
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