The Pale Meridian
The smell of burnt caramel and ozone hung heavy in the air, a thick, cloying fog that seemed to press against the inside of Elias Thorne’s skull, drowning out the distant, rhythmic thumping of the loom that served as the heartbeat of the mill, and he stood there, amidst the scattered debris of shattered clay and spilled molten sugar, his hands trembling not with fear but with a sudden,...
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