The Pale Fracture
The hands of Elias Thorne were not merely tools; they were the map of his suffering, etched in lines that deepened with every shift he worked in the Foundry. They were a pale, fractured landscape, cracked by the heat and the cold, by the heavy iron and the lighter, invisible things that settled into the skin. In the town of Oakhaven, where the fog clung to the cobblestones like a burial shroud,...
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