The Wistful Petal
The rain in the city did not fall so much as it was administered, a grey, industrial sludge that slicked the cobblestones of the district where the old ironworks still stood, silent and rotting. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of a tavern that smelled of wet wool and stale tobacco, his uniform pressed tight against his shoulders, the brass buttons cold against his skin. He was not drinking. He...
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