The Silent Epoch
The fog of London in 1892 did not merely cling to the cobblestones; it breathed. It was a thick, sulfurous shroud that tasted of coal and forgotten prayers. Arthur sat in his attic laboratory, the only light provided by a single, flickering gas lamp that cast long, dancing shadows against walls lined with leather-bound journals and brass instruments. He held the Ether-Block in his palm. It was...
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