The Distant Machine
The ink on the page is still wet, a dark and viscous stain that spreads like a bruise across the parchment, and I write this from the edge of the world where the wind does not merely blow but screams with the voices of the dead who have forgotten how to speak in tongues that living ears can comprehend. I am Elias Thorne, or at least that is the name the Guild of Inquirers stamped upon my ledger...
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