The Pale Exile
The dream began not with a sound, but with the taste of iron and burnt sugar, a flavor so thick and cloying it felt like swallowing a handful of rusted nails. Inspector Elias Thorne woke in his narrow apartment in the fog-choked district of London, the afterimage of that metallic sweetness still clinging to the back of his throat. He lay still for a long moment, listening to the rain tap...
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