The Pale Meridian
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that settled on the shoulders of the men in the square like a shroud. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the wet cobblestones, his coat heavy with damp, his hands resting on the hilt of the service pistol tucked into his waistband. He had been dreaming of fire. It was a recurring dream, a loop of static and heat where the...
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