The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 09:50:02 -

The Distant Wound

The city of Oakhaven did not sleep; it merely held its breath, a collective suspension of life governed by the rhythmic, mechanical thrum of the atmospheric processors. In the upper spires, where the air was scrubbed clean of the gray particulate that choked the lower districts, Elias Thorne sat in a chair that cost more than a year’s labor in the mines, staring at the object in his hands. It...

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