The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, suspended mist that coated the cobblestones of the citadel in a slick, mirror-like sheen. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the parapet, his breath hitching in his chest with the rhythmic, mechanical precision of a piston failing, each inhale a struggle against the cold that had seeped into the marrow of his bones long before the...
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