The Pale Echo
The explosion did not roar; it whispered, a dry, tearing sound like the spine of an old book snapping in a draft. Then, the world turned white. Silas Vane woke with the taste of copper and chalk in his mouth. He lay on the cold floor of the archive, the air thick with the smell of ozone and scorched vellum. His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from a sudden, violent shivering that had...
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