The Faded Paradox
The glass in your hands is already cracked. You feel the splinters bite into your palms, a cold, jagged map of pain that blooms under your fingernails. The air tastes of coal dust and ozone. You are standing in the middle of the Iron Market, a sprawling labyrinth of rusted gears and hissing steam pipes that stretch up into a sky choked with perpetual twilight. There is no sun here. Only the...
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