The Fire Beneath London
Smoke rose from the Thames embankment like a funeral pyre. Arthur Winters stood at the railing, his face illuminated by an orange glow that did not come from any lantern or gaslight. Below him, the river moved black and slow, and from somewhere beneath the cobblestones, beneath the foundations of the city, beneath the bones of a million forgotten souls, came the sound of fire. It had begun...
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