The Pale Tale
The fog did not lift so much as it dissolved into the bone, a slow and heavy seepage that turned the air of the Foundry District into something thick and metallic, tasting of rust and old rain. Elias Thorne stood on the catwalk of the ironworks, his boots ringing against the grating with a hollow, rhythmic thud that seemed to echo in the space between his ribs rather than in the damp air. He...
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