The Faded Quadrant
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the sharp edges of the industrial city, wrapping the cobblestone streets in a damp, suffocating embrace that smelled of wet wool and coal dust. Elias Thorne stood before the great arched window of the Antiquarian Hall, his reflection ghostly and fractured in the wet glass, his hands—those calloused,...
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