The Distant Temple
The left hand of Sergeant Elias Thorne was no longer merely a limb but a cartographic anomaly, a topography of scar tissue and calcified bone that he kept wrapped in bandages not for pain, but for the sheer, oppressive weight of its existence in the humid air of the processing hall in Oakhaven, a town that smelled perpetually of wet coal, rusted iron, and the stale, sweet rot of uncollected...
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