The Faded Attic
The silence in the basement of the Whitmore Armory was not an absence of sound but a heavy, physical thing, a thick velvet curtain that suffocated the air and pressed against the eardrums of the men who stood in the gloom, their uniforms immaculate, their faces pale in the sickly yellow glow of the gaslights that flickered like dying stars in the low, vaulted ceiling. Elias Thorne, a man whose...
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