The Pale Bridge
The train cut through the fog with a sound like tearing silk, a violent severance of the grey morning air that deposited Major Silas Thorne onto the platform of St. Jude’s, a station that seemed less like a place of transit and more like the mouth of a dormant beast, its arches dripping with condensation that smelled of iron and old rain. Thorne stepped off the carriage, his boots striking the...
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