The Wistful Skyline
The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of wet limestone and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the textile looms that had once defined the heartbeat of Ashworth Mill. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the great hall, his uniform immaculate, the brass buttons catching a light that seemed to emanate from the air itself rather than any sun. He was holding a blueprint, a sprawling,...
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