The Pale Garden
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the city, a long, shuddering breath that turned the cobblestones of St. Jude’s Square into slick, black mirrors reflecting the jagged neon of the surrounding bars. Elias Thorne sat on the wet bench, his knees drawn up to his chest, and held the iron lantern in his lap. It was a heavy, brutal thing, a piece of the old world that had no business...
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