The Final Lesson of the Ruined City
The smog of the Blackwood District did not merely drift; it clung to the skin like a wet shroud, tasting of sulfur and old iron. In the heart of this gray wasteland, where the skeletal remains of Victorian factories loomed like prehistoric beasts, stood a small, leaning structure of mismatched bricks. This was the school of Arthur Penhaligon. Arthur sat at his desk, a single tallow candle...
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