The Golden Crossing
The rain in the Valley of Ash did not fall; it descended. It came down in a thick, grey curtain that smelled of sulfur and wet iron, coating the world in a film that never quite dried. I was sitting on the tailgate of my mule cart, the leather creaking under the weight of my exhaustion, watching the mist swallow the distant smokestacks of the textile mills. I was a man who had broken something....
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