The Wistful Voyage
The train did not hiss when it stopped at Harrowgate; it sighed, a long, rattling exhalation of steam and iron that seemed to settle into the bones of the platform. Elias Thorne stepped down, his leather satchel heavy against his hip, the clink of the copper talismans inside it echoing in his ears like a distant, frantic heartbeat. The air smelled of wet wool and coal dust, a thick, industrial...
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