The Golden Myth
You leave before the fog lifts. That is the rule. If you wait, the mist will find the gaps in your armor. It will taste the iron on your skin. It knows what you are. You are a man who breaks things. You are a soldier in a war that has no front lines, only the gray expanse of the industrial flats. The trains rumble in the distance, a low, grinding growl that vibrates in your teeth. You do not...
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