The Pale Altar
The rain did not fall so much as it suspended, a fine, metallic mist that clung to the wet cobblestones of the old district, turning the city into a ghostly mirror of itself where the neon signs bled their colors into the puddles like wounds refusing to close. Commander Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his uniform soaked through to the skin, the heavy wool of his coat dragging...
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