The Wistful Skyline
The fog did not roll in from the harbor, as the old songs claimed, but seeped up from the cobblestones of Millhaven, a thick, grey exhalation that tasted of wet iron and forgotten centuries. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of ash on his tongue, his body aching with the specific, grinding hunger that came from going three days without a proper meal, a physical void that mirrored the hollow...
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