The Distant Joke

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2026-08-20 11:52:34 -

The Distant Joke

The sky above the ironworks did not break; it tore, a jagged wound of violet and black that bled rain onto the cobblestones of the lower city while the upper city remained dry, bathed in the artificial, gaslit amber of the Palace of Scales. You stand now on the precipice of the Grand Atrium, your boots slick with the mud of the streets you were forbidden to walk, your hands trembling not from...

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