The Golden Downtown
The fog in the valley did not lift. It settled, thick and yellow, like the residue of old broth, clinging to the stone walls of the abbey and the cobbles of the square. It was a place where the air tasted of iron and wet wool, where the light from the high windows was always dim, filtered through layers of grime and the perpetual dampness of the earth. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the...
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