The Wistful Skyline
The rain in the Ashen District didn’t fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, oily mist that smelled of sulfur and old copper. It was a Tuesday, or what passed for a Tuesday in the clockwork city of Veridia, where the sky was a permanent bruise of industrial smog and the only light came from the gaslamps that hissed against the damp. I stood on the balcony of the Magistrate’s tower, my...
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