The Pale Mist
The train groaned as it shuddered forward, a low, metallic complaint that vibrated through the soles of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s boots and up into the marrow of his legs, a sound that was less mechanical noise and more the exhalation of a dying beast trapped in the iron cage of the carriage. The air inside was thick, stagnant, smelling of stale tobacco, wet wool, and the faint, coppery tang of...
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