The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist of gray needles that clung to the uniform of Sergeant Elias Thorne, dampening the wool until it felt less like fabric and more like a living, breathing skin of grief. He stood at the threshold of the Iron Gate, a structure that defied the geometry of the valley below, its bars twisting into shapes that suggested frozen lightning or...
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