The Pale Meridian
The train groaned into the station at Ashworth with a sound like a dying animal, spitting plumes of black smoke that hung heavy and sulfurous against the bruised purple of the twilight sky, and Elias Thorne stepped onto the platform with the particular, aching stiffness of a man whose joints had begun to calcify around the very idea of movement, carrying with him, wrapped in oilskin that...
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