The Last Frost

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2026-05-24 16:50:04 -

The Last Frost

The sky was not a sky, but a ceiling of bruised purple and suffocating grey, illuminated by the rhythmic, agonizing pulse of the Great Engine. I remember the gardens of Kent—the scent of damp earth after a June rain, the reckless vibrancy of foxgloves, the way the light filtered through the ancient oaks of my father's estate. Now, there is only the iron. I am Arthur, the last of the Loyalists....

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