The Distant Temple
The shrapnel did not sing, as the poets in the distant, safe provinces claimed it did; it screamed, a high, thin shriek of twisted metal and shattered bone that tore through the smog-choked air of New London, a city that had forgotten the sun so long ago that the citizens had begun to cultivate their own light in jars of bioluminescent algae, glowing with a sickly, greenish pulse that made...
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