The Cursed Ascension
The fog rolled in off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow as old milk. Arthur Blackwood pulled his coat tighter as he picked his way through the garbage-strewn alley, his boots slipping on wet cobblestones. At nineteen, he had already learned that London's East End did not forgive weakness. He found it where the alley opened into a ruined churchyard—the book, half-buried beneath a...
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