The Faded Chronicle
The rain in the valley did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones, a persistent, damp whisper that seemed to carry the weight of the entire industrial complex pressing down upon the sky. He stood at the edge of the foundry floor, where the heat was not the dry, sharp bite of a summer noon but a...
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