The Pale Fracture
The morning began not with the sun, which was perpetually obscured by the thick, sulfuric haze that clung to the spires of the Capital, but with the rhythmic, mechanical grinding of the Alchemical Refineries in the distance, a sound so constant it had become the heartbeat of a city that had long since forgotten the sensation of silence. Julian Vane sat in the high-backed chair of his office on...
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