The Pale Garden
You are currently standing in the center of the mill’s main floor, your boots caked in the black, oily sludge that has soaked through the soles and into the leather, staining the canvas of your trousers a deep, bruised purple that mirrors the twilight gathering outside the high, grated windows. The air here is thick, a physical weight composed of humidity, the metallic tang of heated iron, and...
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