The Victorian Dirge
The fog of London in 1892 did not merely drift; it clung to the skin like a damp shroud, smelling of coal smoke and the slow decay of an empire. In the heart of this grey expanse sat the manor of Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose brilliance was as sharp and cold as the surgical steel he favored. Arthur was a master of thermodynamics, a man who saw the universe not as a collection of souls, but as...
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