The Wistful Letter
The rain in the city of Oakhaven did not fall; it hung, a suspended shroud of gray mist that clung to the brickwork of the foundries and the soot-stained faces of the men who walked the cobblestones. Elias Thorne moved through this deluge with the heavy, rhythmic tread of a man whose legs had forgotten how to be anything other than weapons. He was a guard in the lower district, a position that...
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